


Let's Start Over Again

by thecomedownchampion, Weak



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Forrest Gump References, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Masturbation, Self-Harm, Slow Build, Suicidal Thoughts, Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-16
Updated: 2014-05-29
Packaged: 2018-01-08 21:40:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1137684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecomedownchampion/pseuds/thecomedownchampion, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Weak/pseuds/Weak
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I haven’t been entirely honest with you,” Cora tells him. “There are people who are after me. Hunters from Colombia. And face it: you can’t help me the way you are right now. You can’t help anyone, not even yourself.”</p><p>Derek’s mouth is dry. “What am I supposed to do, go back to Beacon Hills?”</p><p>“Heal, Derek.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Overture

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by Exogenesis Symphony Part 3 (Redemption) by [Muse](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e4EqjvnWfRM). Because all I want is for Derek Hale to get the chance to be happy and apparently that's too much to ask for in canon. The next chapters will be longer. This is just a sort of prologue.

“ _This time we’ll get it right. It’s our last chance to forgive ourselves._ ”

\- Muse

 

The breaking point comes two weeks after they leave Beacon Hills, when they’re tucked into a motel in Roswell, New Mexico. One moment, there are hands holding him down—touching his arms and chest and shoulders—and the next he’s breaking free, shifting and lashing out with his claws as his heart thunders in his chest. A feminine voice cries out and Derek opens his eyes to see Cora recoiling from him, clutching her bleeding arm. His gaze drops to his hands, to the blood on the tips of his claws.

“Cora?” His voice is rough and he can feel pain lingering in his throat as it heals. The box spring mattress creaks beneath Derek as he moves to the edge of the bed, sitting up straight to see his sister.

“This is the second time,” Cora says lowly, clutching her arm as she watches it heal. “The second time you’ve attacked me in your sleep. And it’s the eighth time you’ve woken me up. Sometimes you just mutter, but this time you were screaming.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You can’t keep going on like this, Derek.” She takes a step toward him. “All you do is mope around. It’s like there’s no life left in you.”

“I have _you_ ,” says Derek.

“Not if you kill me in your sleep, you won’t. You’re not…” Cora sighs and presses a hand to her forehead, leaning back against her bed. “You’re not who I thought you’d be.”

Derek’s heart clenches in his chest, but his tone is harsh as he says, “Then maybe you should stop having expectations. It’ll save you the disappointment.”

“I think we should split up.”

The room falls into silence. Derek can hear cars on the highway, the squeaking of protesting springs elsewhere in the motel, and a television with the volume down low but it’s like this room, at this moment, is suspended in time, like the fraction of a second between the opening of the trapdoor and the prisoner’s short descent beneath the platform of the gallows. Cora is the executioner and Derek is her prisoner, her words the noose tightened fast around Derek’s neck and filling the empty space between them with tension. Derek cannot speak, cannot move.

“I haven’t been entirely honest with you,” Cora tells him. “There are people who are after me. Hunters from Colombia. And face it: you can’t help me the way you are right now. You can’t help _anyone_ , not even yourself.”

Derek’s mouth is dry. “What am I supposed to do, go back to Beacon Hills?”

“Heal, Derek.” Cora walks over to him and brushes the short hair back from his forehead. “Do whatever you have to. We’re not parting forever; you have my number so we can keep in touch. But right now… too much has happened and what you need most is time.”

“I’m fine,” Derek says automatically.

Cora laughs bitterly. “You are _anything_ but fine. You have more issues than I do, and that’s saying something.”

Derek speaks no more. Eventually, Cora goes back to her bed to sleep, but Derek lies awake. He checks his phone; on Fridays, Scott gives Derek updates on what’s been happening in Beacon Hills. He told Derek about what he, Stiles, and Allison did to save their parents and the way it’s been affecting them. Occasionally, Scott will also ask Derek for advice, or about what it’s like to be an Alpha. Derek can’t tell him much. His short stint as an Alpha wasn’t exactly under optimal conditions. To Derek’s complete lack of surprise, he also receives texts and emails from Stiles every so often. Unlike Scott’s messages, which tend to be more businesslike, Stiles’ are erratic and inane. He’ll tell Derek funny stories from school, bitch about Isaac, or ramble about his latest research binge. Derek’s replies, when he bothers to reply at all, are as short and stilted as his speech, but Stiles is undeterred. Derek knows that it’s a form of escapism for Stiles, and the thought doesn’t bother him as much as it once might have. Thinking of his sister sleeping beside him, soon to leave him alone once more, he thinks maybe he could use an escape himself.

His phone has no new messages, but he shoots off a text to Scott and Stiles to tell them that he and Cora are going their separate ways for now. Derek blinks when, seconds later, his phone buzzes with a notification and he finds a text from Stiles.

**Stiles Stilinski [03:41AM]**

**What happened? Are you okay?**

Derek chews the inside of his cheek and sends:

**Me [03:42AM]**

**Go to sleep, Stiles.**

Stiles doesn’t text him back.

 

When morning comes, they pack all of their things into duffel bags and Cora brings Derek’s to the Toyota while he returns the motel key to the lobby. The receptionist thanks Derek in a bland voice and he goes out to the parking lot where Cora waits with her own bag. Derek stops in front of her, eyes scanning her features, memorizing her.

“Take a picture; it’ll last longer,” Cora says. Derek raises his phone and snaps a photo before she can protest, but a small smirk graces her features.  

“Do you have a driver’s license?” asks Derek.

“Never really had the time or money.”

“Well if you find the time, the money is yours just as much as it is mine,” says Derek. “Will you be okay?”

Cora raises her eyebrows. “I’ve gotten by this long on my own. I’m sure I’ll be fine for another few months. And if I ever _do_ need anything, I’ve got you on speed-dial.”

Derek nods and after a moment’s hesitation, he pulls his younger sister into his arms, enveloping her in a tight embrace. Cora hugs back fiercely, inhaling deeply to breathe in his scent.

“Be safe,” Derek tells her.

“You too,” she replies.

When they finally part, they get into the car so that Derek can drive Cora into the city where she can find a taxi. The drive is only ten minutes and when Derek pulls over on the side of the street, he squeezes Cora’s hand one more time before she gets out. He watches after her as she raises a hand, hailing a cab to pull over. She glances once more at Derek and gives him a small smile before she loads her duffel bag into the back of the taxi and gets into the passenger seat. The cab pulls out onto the street and merges with the traffic, leaving Derek behind. A shuddering sigh leaves him as he sinks down in his seat, looking out the windows aimlessly. A small tourist shop catches Derek’s eye and he gets out of the Toyota, locking it as he goes inside the small establishment. A bell trills overhead as Derek opens the metal framed door and the shopkeeper doesn’t look up.

The shelves are lined mostly with alien paraphernalia, circulating the conspiracy theories that revolve around the alleged UFO crash in 1947, but what catches Derek’s eye is the rack of postcards. He picks through them until he finds one emblazoned ‘ _Family Vacation_ ’ with an alien father with a camera around his neck, his wife with a string of pearls, and their alien child wearing a hat. In the background, a flying saucer smokes on the desert sand. Derek brings the card up to the front counter and sets it down as the clerk looks up at him.

“Where can I get this posted?” he asks the woman.

“There’s a post office down the street. That’ll be fourteen ninety-nine,” she tells him.

Derek hands the woman a twenty dollar bill and pockets the change. Then he takes the card and thanks the clerk before exiting the store. He walks to the post office and questions what he’s doing as he steps inside and finds a pen, scribbling down Stiles’ address on the back of the postcard. He purchases a stamp and pays the fee to have it delivered to Beacon Hills, California, and as Derek walks out again he still has no idea what he’s doing.

‘ _Heal_ ,’ Cora had told him, but Derek has no idea how to do that or where to go to do so. He thinks of movies and clichés about broken heroes going on soul-searching journeys across the countryside and he figures he has nothing better to do. Derek goes back to his Toyota and fishes the US roadmap and a red pen out of the glove compartment. He leans back in his seat and props the map against the steering wheel as he considers where to go. He draws a red star below the Mexican border, one in Louisiana, Houston, Florida, Arizona, New York City, another in Quebec, and finally a star in Seattle. After a moment’s consideration, he circles the star in Mexico and shuts the glove compartment before setting the pen and map on the empty seat next to him. Derek fastens his seatbelt and turns the key in the ignition, pulling out onto the road. With a destination in sight, Derek feels a little less detached, a little more corporeal. He just hopes that the feeling is worth it.


	2. Cross Pollination (Part 1)

 

 

 

 

Mexico, Louisiana, and Colorado

 

 

The first thing Derek does when he reaches the city of Ciudad Juarez is exchange his American money for pesos. He thanks the man at the desk with a murmured, “ _Gracias_ ,” and makes for a tourist shop where he can find a map and a pamphlet advertising different attractions. With his prize, he returns to the Toyota and props the map against the wheel while he flips through the pamphlet. He retrieves the red pen from the glove compartment and circles Cananea and Guaymas. He’ll drive to Cananea today, and tomorrow he’ll finish the trip to Guaymas.

As Derek sets the map and pamphlet aside, his stomach growls and he glares down at it even though he knows it’s no use. With a sigh of resignation, Derek exits his car and heads down the street to find a diner where he can purchase something without meat in it.

 

Derek is standing in a graveyard. Directly in front of him is the Hale family plot, the names of his parents, siblings, and extended family carved deep into the marble headstones. To his left are the graves of Kate and Victoria Argent. Derek looks away from them—they don’t belong here, so close to the family of werewolves they despised—and in doing so lays eyes on the graves to the right of his family’s. The first two graves are expected: Erica Reyes and Vernon Milton Boyd IV. But his eyes widen as he reads the headstones next to theirs. Melissa McCall, Chris Argent, Johnathan Stilinski, Cora Hale, Isaac Lahey, Scott McCall. Derek shakes his head and steps back. That can’t be right. They were all alive when he last saw them.

“They died because of you, you know,” says a familiar voice.

Dread fills Derek as he turns around to see Stiles dressed in all black. Stiles’ eyes are red from crying and he’s carrying a bouquet of white lilies. Stiles takes a shuddering breath and steels himself, glaring at Derek with hatred and betrayal.

“You’re like a fucking disease,” says Stiles. “You can’t touch anything without dooming it.”

“You’re still alive,” Derek says, but doubt makes a home in his empty stomach.

Stiles chuckles bitterly. “That’s because I still have work to do. Isn’t that right, Allison?”

There’s a rustling sound behind Derek and he turns to see Allison Argent emerging from the woods beyond the graveyard. Her crossbow is aimed steadily at Derek.

“Long time, no see, Derek,” she says.

“So this is it then? You’re going to kill me?” Derek doesn’t dare look away from Allison, but he can hear Stiles approach him from behind, and soon he can feel the warmth radiating off the teen’s body as he comes to a stop mere inches from Derek’s back.

“On three?” Stiles asks over Derek’s shoulder.

“On three,” says Allison. “One…”

Derek doesn’t even try to protest. Doesn’t argue.

“Two…”

The graves in front of him stare back just as accusingly as the broken children in front of and behind him.

“Three.”

There’s a click and Derek watches in slow motion as the crossbow bolt comes hurtling toward him. To his back, he can hear the air being displaced—by a knife? It doesn’t matter. The bolt punches into the centre of Derek’s chest, forcing the air from his lungs, and a blade simultaneously lodges itself in the middle of his spine. Stiles’ chest presses against his back as he pushes the knife in deeper, making Derek gasp out with pain.

“You’ll never hurt anyone again,” Stiles whispers in his ear.

The knife comes free and Stiles moves away, letting Derek fall to the ground. Derek’s heart fights to beat around the arrow lodged in it and his breath comes fast. Stiles stands over his prone body, cocking his head as if he’s looking at a particularly gruesome insect. Derek’s lips form around Stiles’ name, but his voice is stuck in his chest where he can’t seem to get enough oxygen.

“It’s done,” he hears Allison say. “He’ll be dead soon.”

“Thanks, Allison,” Stiles tells her. And then he brings the knife in his hand to his own throat.

“No!” Derek jolts awake with a cry, finding himself in bed in a motel in Cananea, Mexico. He stumbles to his feet and bolts to the bathroom, just barely making it before he hunches over the toilet, bile surging up his throat. Tears spring to his eyes from the burn of the acid, and then he chokes as he dry heaves once, then twice. When his gut finally stops protesting, he coughs a few times to clear his throat and spits. His breath rasps into his lungs as he draws it in with rapid gasps, and his clammy fingers shake as he reaches out to flush the toilet. When Derek finally stands, he takes a stiff step over to the sink and runs the water, scooping it into his mouth to get rid of the sour sting. His eyes meet his own in his reflection, red-ringed and sunken into a pale, sweaty face. He wonders if Kate Argent would want him now and he barks a bitter laugh as he turns off the tap, standing up straight.

Paige, Laura, Kate, Victoria, Erica, Jennifer, Julia; a procession of women killed by association with Derek. He repeats their names like a mantra in his head, a litany of the dead. And in the background, a refrain of Boyd’s name calls out into the darkness of the void, making sure his presence is never forgotten—not that Derek could ever forget that night. He will forever be haunted by the memory of blood, hot and slippery on his hands, contrasting with the chill of his waterlogged apartment. Heaving breaths and fading bruises on his forearms, and a trembling hand on his shoulder: the only thing grounding him to reality and keeping him from flying apart.

Derek looks at himself in the mirror hatefully. He envies the burn scars that marred his uncle’s face; every time he smells the arousal on strangers who see his face and body, it twists his stomach into knots. Too many times his body has been used and abused, like an unloved toy. It makes him think of Laura when she outgrew her old Barbie dolls, how she would torture their plastic features with fire and claws. That’s what Derek is: a doll the world has outgrown but refuses to outright throw away. He’s a means to a violent end, a tool sought to fit someone else’s purposes with no mind of his own.

Glass shatters and sparks of pain burst from the nerves of Derek’s split knuckles as the broken pieces of the mirror fall to the bathroom counter. Derek curls his hand around a shard of glass and he brings it to the face he hates, dragging the sharp edge from cheekbone to jaw. He feels wet warmth and the itch of torn flesh knitting back together, and an angry, desperate sound breaks out of his throat as he brings the glass to his face again and again, and then to his abdomen as the ghost sensation of a tongue traces the musculature. But sure enough, the edges of the cuts close and finally, Derek throws the piece of glass into the sink with a snarl of frustration before he slumps back to sit on the edge of the bathtub, cradling his head in his hands as he pants for breath. There’s no trembling hand to keep the pieces of him together now.

He doesn’t know how long he sits there—minutes, hours—before he hears his cellphone vibrate on the nightstand in the main room of the motel. Derek rises to his feet on rigid legs and forces himself to leave the bathroom, retrieving his phone. He sits on the motel bed with his phone in his lap as he checks his inbox. There’s a message from Scott and another from Stiles. He opens Stiles’ text first.

**Stiles Stilinski [04:27AM]**

**Fun fact human intestines have a turnover rate of 5 days. Looks like werewolves aren’t the only ones with super regeneration.**

Derek is suddenly filled with irrational anger as he reads the message. He grits his teeth as he types out a reply.

**Me [04:31AM]**

**Why the hell do you keep texting me?**

Stiles’ response is almost instantaneous.

**Stiles Stilinski [04:31AM]**

**Why do you keep answering?**

Derek takes a deep breath, reeling in the urge to throw his phone. The truth is that he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know why he keeps answering Stiles’ texts any more than he knows why he let Stiles help him search for Erica and Boyd last summer, or why he bought that postcard for him in Roswell. Instead, he opens the text from Scott.

**Scott McCall [10:28PM]**

**Hey Derek. What happens when an alpha loses his anchor?**

This answer, at least, is easy.

**Me [04:33AM]**

**He loses himself.**

Derek leaves his phone on the bed as he goes to the bathroom for a brief shower, then he dresses and repacks his bag. A young man blinks sleepily at Derek when he goes to the front desk and makes an effort to put on a professional smile. Derek pays for the room and a replacement mirror, and then he goes out to his Toyota, eager to get back on the road. He couldn’t fall asleep now if he tried.  

 

The first thing Derek does when he reaches Guaymas is purchase swimming trunks, a pair of black flip-flops, and a beach towel. The shorts are black with a thick white stripe down the outer sides and red hibiscuses trailing along them. The towel is navy blue, thick terrycloth and a lime green seahorse stitched into the fabric. Derek drives to the beach and changes into the swim shorts and sandals in his Toyota while it’s parked in the lot, bracketed by a station wagon and a cherry red corvette. He finds his old pair of aviators in the glove compartment and slides them onto his nose, then digs his copy of _Fahrenheit 451_ out of his duffel.

When he steps out of the vehicle, he has his towel tucked under one arm and the book in hand. His other hand wields his cellphone, which he uses to snap a picture of the beach. Unthinking, he sends the picture to Stiles without a caption. Before he can question it, he tucks his phone back into his pocket and slams the car door shut, using the key fob to lock it behind him as he steps out onto the sand. The keys join his phone in the pocket of Derek’s shorts and he walks along the edge of the beach as he searches the long stretch of sand for the most isolated dune he can find. He ends up near a jagged outcrop of rock, and he stretches his towel over the sand there before he sits down, kicking off his sandals so that he can sit on the towel cross-legged with the book in his lap as he reads about Guy Montag and his struggle to break free from a hollow existence. Derek reads six pages before the ocean wave soundtrack itches at his ears and he has to replace his bookmark, setting the book down. He removes his aviators and takes his cellphone from his pocket, tucking a corner of the towel over them before he walks, barefoot, out to the edge of the water.

The wet sand is cool and soothing beneath the soles of Derek’s feet. A wave slides in and foaming water tickles at his toes playfully, beckoning him in further. Derek steps out, water rising to his ankles, his calves, his thighs, and soon his waist as he leaves the shore behind him. The smell of salt and rotting marine life is thick in his nostrils, but not entirely unpleasant. It’s the smell of an ecosystem, the way it should be. The water is up to Derek’s chest now. He thinks, briefly, of Cora and wonders where she is, then he ducks under the water, blowing air out through his nose and clenching his eyes shut. The rush of water fills his ears, amplifying all sounds. He remembers hearing, once—Stiles might have told him—that water creates a better medium for sound waves than air, increasing the speed fourfold. Derek never took physics past eleventh grade; it was interesting enough, but it was never his passion.

When his lungs start to burn, he finally surfaces, sucking precious oxygen into his greedy mouth. His lips taste of salt. He kicks off of the sand beneath him to float on his back, closing his eyes and letting himself drift along the ocean waves. He opens an eye periodically to make sure he doesn’t stray too far from the shore.

This time, he doesn’t need anybody to hold him above the surface.

Sometime later, Derek returns to the shore. He sits on his towel to dry in the sun and wipes his hands on the fabric before taking out his cellphone from under the fold. He has a text message from Stiles.

**Stiles Stilinski [01:32PM]**

**Do werewolves even get sunburn?**

He huffs and stands up, walking over by the rocks. The tide is low and Derek keeps a careful grip on his phone as he climbs over heated stone to search for tide pools. When he finds a water-filled dip in the rock, he crouches down to peer into it. Small anemones grow among lichen-coated rocks and Derek can see two starfishes clinging to the rough stone that encages them. He thinks he can see the purple spines of a sea urchin taking shelter in a crevice. On the edges, a host of hermit crabs bathe in the sun. Derek watches as one migrates along the side of the pool and, overtaken by curiosity, slowly lays his hand palm-up in front of it. The hermit crab crawls onto his hand, uncaring, and Derek raises his phone to take a picture of the hermit crab and the tide pool beyond it. He sends the photo to Stiles and watches the hermit crab continue its journey off of his hand and down the rock. He watches for a little longer, and then Derek returns to his beach towel to read _Fahrenheit 451_ while he finishes drying.

 

The drive to San Carlos takes only half an hour and Derek stares speculatively at the white building with bright red paint proclaiming it to be Gary’s Dive Shop. The pamphlet he bought in Ciudad Juarez said that he could book boat tours, diving, and snorkeling here. Derek has never done any of those things. He turns the options over in his head, thinks of Cora’s instructions, and gets out of the Toyota. The lobby is pristine and the man at the front desk looks up with interest as Derek approaches.

“Welcome to Gary’s Dive Shop,” the man says in an accented voice. “How can I be of service to you today?”

“ _Quiero registrarme para el buceo_ ,” says Derek.

The man raises his eyebrows and smiles delightedly when he hears Derek speak Spanish and he asks, _“_ _¿Cuándo desea bucear?”_

“ _Mañana?”_ Derek asks.

The man opens a logbook to check for reservation times _. “_ _¿Puedo reservar en mediodía?”_

“ _Si, gracias_ ,” says Derek. He opens his wallet. _“¿Cuánto cuesta?”_

The man tells Derek the price and Derek hands over a wad of cash. The man counts the money quickly before telling Derek to have a nice day. Derek exits the shop quietly and lets out a sigh. He’s going diving tomorrow at noon. He wonders if Erica’s parents ever let her go diving or snorkeling, but he thinks not. They would have been too worried that she’d have a seizure underwater and drown. Derek thinks that would have been a better way to die than being tormented by the Alpha pack. He wishes her death could have been an honest accident.

But mostly, Derek just wishes she hadn’t died at all.

 

The air conditioning in the motel is broken. A fan whirrs on full blast, accomplishing little more than blowing recycled, stuffy air around the room. Derek is laying face-down on the bed, spread-eagled to increase his surface area and receive more of the tepid, artificial wind; and the sheets have been kicked down and tangled around his right leg, creeping up his thigh as sweat beads on his skin. Derek stares at the cheap alarm clock on the nightstand. The red digital numbers declare that it’s ten-past-ten in the morning; he should get up and get ready to head over to Gary’s Dive Shop so that he can pick out his rental gear.

10:11.

10:12.

10:13.

Derek still doesn’t get up. He should cancel his registration. He doesn’t want to do anything today. He doesn’t want to do anything for the next century.

10:14.

He doesn’t see the point in it. He liked swimming enough, as a child, but it was never a passion of his. It will probably be a waste of time anyway.

10:15.

10:16.

10:17.

Derek wonders what day of the week it is. Friday hasn’t come yet, or he would have heard from Scott. He, Isaac, and Stiles are in class right now. Derek wonders if Beacon Hills High School has hired fulltime replacement staff for the teachers who were killed by the Darach (Jennifer, Julia).

10:18.

10:19.

There are no familiar scents in Mexico. Mostly he smells spices, trash from the myriad of tourists, dry sand, salt, and the ocean. Even the coastline here smells different from California.

10:20.

10:21.

10:22.

Derek is trash.

10:23.

Get up.

10:24.

_Get up._

10:25.

_GET UP, YOU USELESS PIECE OF SHIT._

10:26.

Derek gets up. He glares at the mirror when he enters the bathroom to take a piss. He hates it for performing its intended function.

 

The same man who was working the desk yesterday is there again when Derek enters the Dive Shop. He greets Derek jovially and is eager to help find what he needs for the diving tour. The other members of Derek’s group trickle in to acquire their own gear, and soon enough they’re all herded onto a tour boat. The boat is painted off-white with bright red and yellow trim, and red paint declares her the _Gloria Marius._ Most of the tourists are American, so the guide speaks in English to them as another man drives the boat stoically. Derek stares out at the water dispassionately as the guide chatters about their destination: Magdalena Bay by San Pedro Nolasco Island. Some of the tourists, particularly the younger women, eye Derek with interest, but he pays them no attention.

As they near the small island, the boat slows and Derek can see sea lions basking on the rocks around the bay. The water itself is very clear.

Derek has his cellphone half raised to snap a photo when a female voice says, “Excuse me, but would you like me to take the picture for you? That way you can get yourself in the photo.”

Derek turns to the woman, a blonde with tan skin about ten years older than him. She smells of attraction, but not arousal, and that’s why Derek nods and hands his phone to her before he stands against the rails awkwardly.

“Just make sure the flash is off,” Derek tells her, wanting to ensure the photo isn’t ruined by the light reflecting off his eyes. The woman gives an affirmative and raises the phone. Derek doesn’t quite smile—he barely even grimaces. There’s a click and the woman hands the phone back to Derek. “Thanks,” he says. He sends it to Stiles.

“I’m Anne,” says the woman with a polite smile.

“Nice to meet you.” Derek doesn’t offer a smile or his own name in return.

The boat comes to a stop and the tourists begin stripping down to their bathing suits and putting on their scuba gear. Derek, already wearing his swim shorts, just takes off his shirt and wraps it around his cellphone before the tour guide shows him how to put on the buoyancy control vest, weight belt, and oxygen tank. The snorkel, mask, and fins are self-explanatory. When the guide is done helping Derek, he goes from tourist to tourist to make sure that they are suited up correctly. Finally, the guide brings them to the back of the boat where they step over the lip of the low siding and into the water. Derek treads water in place as the guide prattles on, only half-listening. He’s busy thinking of a time when treading water was out of the question, when someone else had to tread for him. The vest against his skin reminds him of an arm curled snug around him. It makes him feel calm.

Finally, the guide instructs them to put the end of the snorkel in their mouths and submerge themselves. The world takes on an aquamarine hue and Derek looks down at the lichen and barnacle covered rocks on the ocean floor not far below. Urchins and sea stars lay on the floor and not far above them, brightly coloured fish swim in small schools. Hiding in a small nook, Derek even sees an octopus. He swims closer, hears the rush of stirring water, and looks up to see a sea lion swim by. Around Derek, the other tourists watch the mammal as it cuts through the water gracefully. In the vast ocean, full of so much life, Derek feels very small indeed.

 

Derek leaves San Carlos the day after his diving tour. He takes the time to shower, brush his teeth, dress, and buy a simple breakfast in the morning, and then he sets off for Deming, New Mexico. His ultimate destination at the moment is Louisiana, to get away from the desert, but the drive to Deming is just over eight hours and he would rather not fall asleep at the wheel and demolish his car. 

Derek keeps his cellphone turned off while he’s driving, but once he’s stopped at a motel in Deming he turns it back on. He’s in the middle of eating vegetable stir fry out of a take-out container when his phone begins to ring. Derek pauses with his chopsticks halfway to his mouth and sighs, setting the container and utensils down on the nightstand before he accepts the call and presses the device to his ear.

“Scott,” he says.

“ _Hey, Derek,_ ” says Scott. “ _Stiles told me you and Cora split up. What happened?_ ”

“None of your business.”

He can hear Scott huff out a breath. “ _Fair enough._ ”

“What’s going on in Beacon Hills?”

“ _We got a new history teacher on staff—he and his daughter started at the school this week,_ ” Scott tells him. “ _So far they check out; they smell human and nothing crazy has happened yet, so fingers crossed. The Nemeton hasn’t drawn anything here yet that we’ve noticed, but Deaton said it could take time. Allison, Stiles, and I have all been having some really messed up dreams and I’ll admit, my control has been kind of frayed. Allison was my anchor and now that we’re drifting…_ ”

“Her pull on you isn’t strong enough anymore,” Derek says.

“ _Yeah. What do I do?_ ”

“The harder you try to hold onto Allison, the less control you’ll have. You need to find a new anchor that will hold this time.”

Derek can hear the grimace in Scott’s voice. “ _Got any advice there?_ ”

“It won’t be your anchor if I pick it for you, now will it?”

Scott sighs. “ _I guess you’re right._ ”

“Anything else?”

“ _Not really._ ”

“Take care, Scott.”

“ _You too, Derek._ ” Scott hangs up.

Derek sets down his phone and picks up his stir-fry, bringing a bite to his lips. He thinks he should call Cora. He doesn’t.

 

It takes two more days to drive to New Orleans. Derek arrives in the late afternoon, stopping at a restaurant for dinner before he searches for a place to stay the night. The hostess seats him at a two-person table by the window and the waiter comes moments later to ask Derek what he wants to drink. He just gets water.

When the waiter returns with Derek’s drink and asks what he’d like to order, Derek asks, “Is there any meat in the shrimp gumbo aside from the shrimp and the sausage?”

“No, that’s it,” the waiter says.

“Could I get the shrimp gumbo without the sausage then?”

“Sure.” The waiter raises an eyebrow, but he writes down Derek’s order and leaves him be.

Derek taps his fingertips against the table and looks out the window as he waits. Stiles texted him a couple times yesterday. It wasn’t anything important; Derek’s noticed that. Stiles never tells him about anything serious. He doesn’t ask why Derek has been sending him pictures either, for which Derek is glad. He doesn’t know why he does it either. In return, Derek doesn’t ask Stiles about the nightmares Scott says he’s having, even though Derek knows from the times listed on his texts that Stiles has been sleeping in sporadic bursts of exhaustion.

The waiter brings Derek’s food and Derek murmurs his thanks. As he takes the first bite though, he realizes that the waiter is hovering with a look of amusement. Derek looks up at him with a carefully blank expression.

“Not a fan of sausage?” the waiter asks.

“I don’t eat pork,” Derek says in a monotone.

“Beef?”

“No.”

“Chicken?”

“No.”

“Are you one of those weird half-vegetarians?”

“Pescetarian.”

The waiter grins. “Health nut?”

“No.”

“Activist?”

“No.”

The waiter raises his hand in surrender. “Not my business.”

Without taking his eyes off of the waiter, Derek very deliberately stabs a shrimp on the end of his fork and brings it to his mouth to keep from saying what he’s thinking. ‘ _You’re right. It_ isn’t _your business,_ ’ or ‘ _Seafood has a very distinctive smell when it’s cooking. You can’t mistake it for anything else._ ’

The waiter leaves him be. Derek leaves him a shit tip out of spite.

Derek lingers in the parking lot before getting in his Toyota. He’s sick of the city and the salt of the ocean, doesn’t want to spend another night enveloped in the stench of sex and too many bodies. He opens the passenger door to dig out his map and circle a new destination. Then he heads for Tickfaw State Park an hour away, where he asks about camping sites. The park ranger there directs Derek to a campsite and, upon negotiation, collects the fee for two nights. Derek is given a map and a wish for good luck, and then he packs into his car again to navigate his way to the site. The road winds through trees and thick forest, and Derek feels a small thrill run through his veins. The wild calls to his lupine instincts, urging him to run and chase and hunt.

By the time Derek arrives at the campsite, the sun has sunk low in the sky, burning the world in orange and gold. The campsite is located near a small lake with a long pier snaking out over the water. Around the campsite are a number of tents and RVs, their inhabitants look out at Derek with curious eyes.

They’re all naked.

Derek parks the Toyota and gets out, frowning. A middle aged man walks over to Derek, uncaring of his nudity. The other campers wander over in a rough semicircle to watch.

“New to Tickfaw?” asks the man. When Derek says nothing, he continues, “I knew it. David always sends the newbies out here. He thinks it’s funny.”

“Okay,” says Derek.

“In case you didn’t realize, we’re a nudist colony.” 

Derek shrugs with a deadpan and begins stripping off his clothes.

The man chuckles and when Derek is completely naked he says, “Welcome! And make yourself at home; have you had any supper?”

“I had dinner in New Orleans,” Derek says as he throws his clothing inside his car.

“Sit with us anyway; get to know the community. I’m Calvin.”

“Derek.”

Calvin shakes Derek’s hand and leads him over to a campfire in the middle of the site where the other camp-goers have pulled up their lawn chairs and logs to sit on. There are a few picnic benches as well. Derek takes a seat on the end of a log farther away from the fire and Calvin sits next to him with a woman around his own age on his other side.

“Derek, this is my wife, Matilda,” Calvin says, gesturing to the woman.

The woman beams at Derek. “Hello.”

Derek nods. More people gather round, eager to learn about the new man in their community.

“So where are you from, Derek?” asks Calvin.

“California,” Derek says quietly, feeling uncomfortable under so much scrutiny.

“That’s a neat tattoo you’ve got on your back,” says Matilda. “What does it mean?”

“Um.”

“There’s no need to be shy,” Calvin says encouragingly. “We’re all family here; we’ve got nothing to hide.”

Derek purses his lips. Derek hasn’t had a family in a long time, and if he did, it wouldn’t be this group of strangers.

“Now, now, Cal,” Matilda scolds, “you’re making the young man nervous. He probably just came here for some peace and quiet.”

“I’m just being friendly!” Calvin protests, but he doesn’t ask Derek anything more about himself. Instead the conversation becomes one-sided as the man starts telling Derek about the community and what they do when they have their trips here. “We swim in the lake in the mornings and some of us do painting. Everyone helps out with meals, either cooking or cleaning up afterward, and we all get to eat. We go fishing. It’s a relaxing time.”

Derek declines the invitation to roast marshmallows over the fire, but when Matilda offers him one that’s already been cooked, he accepts it with a polite thank you. Now that Calvin is no longer monopolizing his time, other members of the community wander over to introduce themselves and tell Derek a little about themselves. Some of them smell of arousal, looking a little too long at his body, but the scent isn’t overwhelming. When darkness falls, he wanders toward his Toyota, intending to crank back the front seat and sleep there, but Calvin stops him and offers a spare tent. Derek compromises with a borrowed sleeping bag instead, saying that he wants to sleep under the stars.

“A romantic, are you?” Calvin winks as he places the nylon bag in Derek’s hands.

“ _No_.” And there must be something funny about the look on Derek’s face because Calvin starts laughing. Derek scowls and sets the bag down near his car before marching toward the trails in the woods.

“Where are you going?” asks a woman Derek thinks is named Trisha.

“I want to run,” Derek says, and he doesn’t break his pace. As soon as the encampment passes from sight, Derek lets the tug in his gut pull him forward, breaking into a sprint. The earth pounds beneath Derek’s feet like the heart of a primal beast and his nostrils are filled with the scent of vegetation, growing fruit, wet bark, rich earth, fecal matter, a fox fifty meters away, the corpse of a vole a hundred further, life and death layered over each other and compounding into a smell that can only be described as the forest’s respiration—inhale spring rain, bright green shoots, and copulation; exhale dry winters, wilting flowers , and hunted prey. Tendons stretch and muscles pull, Derek’s legs carrying him deeper into the heart of the wild. Humanity, like an impending headache, throbs in the distance and Derek yearns to leave it behind. Derek shifts into his Beta form, pushes faster, and throws his head back to gasp for breath, ‘ _I’m alive! I’m alive!_ ’ and oh, how he wants to _howl._

Derek smells the pungent odour of deer urine and follows the scent trail, winding through the trees far from recognizable paths. Soon enough, he catches the scent of the deer itself, an adult buck. He hunches over to run on all fours, quieting his tread. He slows down as he draws closer, and creeps when he catches sight of it. The deer is grazing on fungi at the base of an oak. Derek pads toward it silently until they are only twenty meters apart, and then he growls savagely.

The deer startles and begins to run. Derek’s instincts slip into overdrive and he grins widely as he gives chase. The last leg of the pursuit is short-lived. While the deer has the advantage of knowing the terrain, Derek is too fast, and soon his arms are wrapping around the buck’s shoulders and he’s driving his teeth into its throat, arterial blood spraying into his mouth. The buck collapses and Derek holds on tightly, clamping his jaws down harder. The buck lays, trembling, and its heart flutters frantically as if it’s trying to beat for every contraction it will miss. The scent of its terror fills the air.

When finally the buck lies still, Derek consumes the first mammalian flesh he’s partaken of in nearly seven years. 

 

After he has eaten his fill, Derek slips back into his human skin and leaves the remains for other animals to dine on. His body is streaked with blood and dirt, and for once it doesn’t feel wrong. He follows ears and nose to the river and steps into the cool water to bathe, rubbing the grime from his skin. The air feels good in his lungs, life is thrumming through his veins, and high above the waxing moon casts an ethereal glow on the landscape. Derek sinks into the water and closes his eyes.

When he’s clean, Derek finds a rock to sit on to dry, and he leans back to look up at the night sky. Far from the city, the stars are clearly visible, like someone is holding up a bright light behind a great black sheet pricked with thousands of tiny pinholes. Derek wonders if Cora is looking at the same sky right now. He wonders if Stiles and Scott and Isaac are doing the same.  

Though Derek takes his time walking back to the campsite, he has no problem finding his way. Embers burn low in the neglected fire pits and the tents are dark and silent. Derek reaches his Toyota undisturbed and finds his cellphone. The signal is almost nonexistent, but it’s enough to send a text.

**Me [02:38AM]**

**I ate a deer.**

The reply comes minutes later.

**Stiles Stilinski [02:40AM]**

**Would you like a medal?**

Derek huffs.

**Me [02:40AM]**

**Yes.**

**Stiles Stilinski [02:41AM]**

**But for real, was it okay?**

Stiles is one of the few people who know about Derek’s eating habits. He observed them last summer when he was trying to help find Erica and Boyd. Derek still remembers when they were painting over the door at his old house and Stiles bitched until Derek finally caved and bought the red paint instead of the green he was looking at.

“Green is not a creative colour, Derek,” Stiles had insisted.

If they had been friendlier with each other and the situation was less dire, Derek might have laughed at Stiles when Scott scraped the paint away with his claws to reveal the Alpha pack’s jagged triskelion underneath. All of that moaning and whining for nothing. The red chips and clumps had looked like shredded muscle beneath Scott’s nails.

The smell of cooking meat alone used to make Derek vomit, but as the years passed and old wounds scarred over, so grew his tolerance. Barbecued meat still turns him a little green with the combination of flesh and fire, but it no longer sends him reeling like it used to. He still refuses to eat it though. One day last summer, Stiles came over after he had steak for dinner with his dad. The scent caught Derek off guard, and the moment he sensed it, he started gagging. Stiles acted aloof, but he never came over smelling like cooked meat again.

**Me [02:43AM]**

**It was raw.**

**Stiles Stilinski [02:44AM]**

**Gross.**

**Stiles Stilinski [02:46AM]**

**Do you ever wish you were an alpha again so you could turn into a full wolf?**

**Me [03:01AM]**

**Sometimes.**

Derek doesn’t tell Stiles that he thinks it would make him feel closer to his mother, but he thinks the teen gets it anyway. After all, Stiles is no stranger to loss.

 

The smell hits Derek hard the next morning, making his stomach roil. He groans and hauls himself to his feet, stumbling toward the forest trails again as last night’s hunt threatens to make a gruesome reappearance.

“Derek!” Calvin calls. “You’re up just in time for breakfast.”

Derek shakes his head, willing himself to move faster. He breaks into an unsteady jog and gains speed. He runs until the smell of forest life overwhelms the stench of roasting flesh, sucking in desperate breaths as if he’s been starved of oxygen. It’s been a while since Derek has reacted this badly to that scent. For the first time in years, his metabolism has been exposed to bacteria and proteins his body has long since forgotten, and it’s left him a little unhinged and his stomach sensitive. He hunches over by the roots of a towering elm, gripping his elbows tight. He wills himself to calm down, gather his wits.

_Breathe in._

_Breathe out._

He stays crouched by the tree for three minutes before he lets his nose guide him to a persimmon tree, picking a few ripe fruits. He can’t go back to the encampment until he’s sure they’re finished eating, so he resolves to find his own breakfast. The smell of the bacon will linger when he returns, but this is the best he can do. Unlike last night, Derek walks through the woods at a leisurely pace now, appreciating his surroundings on a more human level as he takes in the sights. The forest is lush, even in October. Derek takes a bite out of a persimmon and lets its sweet juices run down his chin and hands. It rinses away the lingering flavour of blood on his tongue.

The sun has climbed high in the sky by the time Derek returns to the camp. Near the edge of the forest, an easel and canvas have been set up where Trisha is painting. She raises her head as Derek walks into the clearing, sniffing at the remnants of bacon.

“You feeling better now?” Trisha asks. “You looked really sick this morning.”

“I’m fine,” says Derek. He wanders over and takes a look at the canvas. Trisha is painting bright blossoms. “Looks good,” Derek tells her.

“Thank you.” Trisha smiles brightly and her face and chest flush a little. “Do you paint?”

“No,” says Derek. “I’m no good.”

“You’ll never get better if you don’t practice! Here, let me get you an easel.” Trisha grabs a wood stand from next to her tent before Derek can protest, and then she’s fetching another canvas and a paper plate for the paint. She squirts out daubs of white, black, magenta, blue, and yellow onto the plate and hands it to Derek along with a paintbrush.

“I really can’t do this,” Derek says.

“Just try.”

Derek lets out a heavy sigh and dips his paintbrush in the jar of water sitting in the grass between him and Trisha and collects blue paint on the bristles. He blends blue and yellow to make green, adding black to get different tones, before he starts streaking the canvas in short, unpracticed strokes. He feels stiff and awkward, and the brush feels thin and fragile in his too-large hand.

Talia Hale was an amazing artist. When Derek was a child, he didn’t think that there was anything she could not do. Distantly, he remembers sitting on her lap as she created life from acrylic and canvas, starbursts of colour and a well full of confidence. He remembers clinging to her fur when she shifted into her Alpha form, riding on her back as she ran through the preserve and he whooped with joy. When he grew older and bigger, Derek ran by her side. Laughter filled the night when the moon was full and breath passed through exhilarated lips in great puffs of air. The forest became saturated with _family_ and _pack_. And as the sun began to rise, Derek and his siblings and cousins all fell into a happy pile, curling together for warmth as Talia and Peter watched over them.

Derek thinks of his run last night, the hunt. He tries to channel that same energy, that closeness he felt to his pack in that moment, as he paints. He rinses his paintbrush and dips it with black paint, bringing it to the green-smeared canvas to shape a wolf, his mother, his _Alpha…_

Trisha leans over curiously. “What is it?”

Derek blinks and leans back to take a look at what he’s made. The black mass in the middle of the canvas is vaguely animal shaped, but it doesn’t look much like anything.

“I don’t know,” Derek says. His hands rest in his lap, holding the brush and paper plate limply. Derek tries to reach for that feeling of pack again—can’t. Derek’s pack burned seven years ago and all that’s left is a hollow pit in the centre of his chest that he failed to fill. He hasn’t created anything since then. All his hands ever do now is destroy.

 

Derek goes fishing with Calvin, Matilda, Trisha, and two other men later. They go to the small lake with fishing poles, a net, and a tackle box, walking out on the long wooden pier. Calvin introduces Derek to the men, Stephan and Vince, and offers some pointers on fishing. Derek doesn’t need them, used to go fishing with his family as a kid, but he remains silent. He slips a worm onto the hook and casts it into the water, watching the bright red bobber float on the surface. Matilda and Trisha lay out beach towels on the pier and lay down to soak up the sun.

“You’re not fishing today, Trish?” says Calvin.

“Nah. I’m just appreciating the view.” Trisha winks at Derek and he turns away to watch the bobber, face impassive. After about fifteen minutes, Derek feels a gentle tug on the line. Below the surface, he can see a trout nibbling curiously at the worm on his hook. Derek waits patiently, and when the trout bites down again, Derek tugs hard on the fishing rod to set the hook and begins reeling it in. Everyone looks over, grinning eagerly and giving encouragement. When the trout finally breaks the surface of the water just below the pier, Derek sees where the hook has pierced through its upper lip, smells the fish’s fear and the blood that wells around the metal. Relief settles in his chest and when Calvin scoops it up in the net and the fish is level with him, Derek gently takes it in one hand, holding down its slippery fins, and eases the hook out of its mouth. The fish is a decent size—several pounds at least.

“What do you want me to do with it?” Derek asks Calvin.

“Keep him if you want,” says Calvin. “But if you don’t have a license, I’m not paying your fine.”

Derek grunts and tosses the trout back in before sitting down against the railing across from Matilda and Trisha, setting the pole next to him.

“Are you hungry?” Matilda asks.

Derek opens his mouth to answer when Vince starts shouting excitedly; he’s caught a fish. He reels it in and Calvin sweeps the net under the fish and brings it up. Derek hears Stephan curse, “The bastard’s swallowed the hook!” And then they begin tugging at the line emerging from the fish’s mouth, and Derek imagines the hook tearing through the fish’s esophagus, dragging shreds of tissue on its way up.

“No,” Derek tells Matilda. “I’m fine.”

When they’ve had their fill of fishing and sun, they go back to the camp and wash up their hands before starting on dinner. This time, Derek is prepared for the smell of cooking meat, and he ignores it in favor of the corn he’s helping to roast. He sits as far from the fire as possible as he eats, Trisha seated next to him, and someone brings out a guitar. The community sings as they pass around the guitar from person to person.

“Do you play, Derek?” asks Trisha.

“No,” says Derek.

“Another instrument then?”

Derek hesitates before saying, “I used to play piano.”

“Why did you stop?”

“I didn’t have a piano anymore.” It burned along with his family home.

Trisha doesn’t ask anything else of him and he volunteers nothing more. When the moon has rose high in the sky and the fire has burned low, the guitar is put away and people begin to drift to their tents with murmurs of goodnight. Derek goes to his borrowed sleeping bag and lays down, listening to the rustle of bodies adjusting their position in nylon cocoons and nocturnal wildlife buzzing in the surrounding forest. Once the human noises have gone still with sleep, Derek slips from his sleeping bag and wanders over to the lake. The water is cool and refreshing when Derek steps into it. The freshwater smells completely different from the ocean with the absence of salt and differing flora and fauna. Derek walks out until the water is up to his waist, and then he sighs. After some time, he hears approaching footsteps. He ignores them until the intruder begins to join him in the water. He plasters a neutral expression on his face and turns to look at Trisha.

“What are you doing here?” he asks.

Trisha shrugs. “Couldn’t sleep. Saw that you couldn’t either. I figured we could not-sleep together.” She walks over until they’re side by side and Derek sees her eyes tracing over his body, can smell her growing arousal.

Derek takes a steadying breath and turns his back to her. “You don’t want this.”

“I do,” she says softly. She touches Derek’s tattoo and traces his spine downward. In his mind’s eye, Derek sees Jennifer Blake (Julia Baccari).

“Trisha, _don’t_ ,” Derek says. His voice is low with warning.

“It’s okay, Derek,” Trisha says. “Let yourself relax.” Her hand curves around Derek’s hip to his abdomen, fingers sliding through the dark path of hair down to his groin.

Derek’s eyes flare bright blue and his mouth aches as his fangs unsheathe from his gums. He grabs her wrist with clawed fingertips, hard enough to make her cry out, and spins around, his other hand flying to her throat and squeezing tightly. His lips are pulled back in a feral snarl and he growls low in his throat. The woman trembles, eyes wide with fear, and Derek smells a small amount of piss diluting in the water. Trisha makes tiny, strangled whimpering sounds that increase in intensity as Derek pulls her face close to his.

“I. Said. _Don’t_.”

He releases her all at once and turns back to the shore before he can watch her react beyond the initial recoil. Once the water has freed his thighs, Derek sets off at a run, bolting to his car and kicking aside the sleeping bag as he flings open the door. Derek pulls out his discarded clothes from yesterday and yanks on a pair of jeans and shoes before throwing himself into the vehicle. His hands are clumsy as he tries to jam the key into the ignition, but finally he manages to turn it and the vehicle comes roaring to life. The tires spit gravel and he sees sleepy heads poking out of their tents. His heartbeat ratchets up even further and Derek is peripherally aware that he’s panting. He drives the Toyota down the road as quickly as he safely can, and he doesn’t relax until he’s out of Tickfaw State Park. When Derek’s claws and fangs have finally receded and his adrenaline levels have eased off, he pulls onto the main highway and sets a destination for Washington State; as far from Louisiana as he can get.

 

On the third day of driving, Derek pulls into the parking lot of the airport off of Highway 50 in Colorado. There was an advertisement for skydiving a few miles back. Derek stares at the plain building and the jet sculpture for a long, contemplative moment before he snaps a picture of it (minus the sign) and sends it to Stiles with, ‘ _I’m going to skydive._ ’

Stiles texts him back seconds later.

**Stiles Stilinski [11:54AM]**

**If this is just a really elaborate suicide attempt, I am going to kill you.**

**Me [11:55AM]**

**Don’t be ridiculous. You don’t even know where I am.**

There’s a pause before Stiles replies.

**Stiles Stilinski [11:58AM]**

**Fremont County Airport. 60298, Highway 50. Penrose, Colorado.**

Derek blinks.

**Me [11:59AM]**

**Did you get your friend to track my cellphone???**

**Stiles Stilinski [12:00PM]**

**No. It’s called a reverse image search. Learn to Google.**

**Stiles Stilinski [12:02PM]**

**And by the way, if you don’t call me in two hours, I’m going to drive to Penrose and kick your ass.**

**Me [12:03PM]**

**It will take you two days. Good luck with that.**

**Me [12:04PM]**

**But don’t worry, you’re already in my will.**

Derek gets out of his car and starts walking over to the airport entrance. His cellphone buzzes angrily and Derek checks it one more time—

**Stiles Stilinski [12:04PM]**

**Wait are you serious?**

**Stiles Stilinski [12:04PM]**

**Am I actually in your will?**

**Stiles Stilinski [12:05PM]**

**Is this really an elaborate suicide attempt???**

**Stiles Stilinski [12:05PM]**

**Gotta say, you make your exits just as dramatic as your entrances**

**Stiles Stilinski [12:05PM]**

**REALLY????**

**Stiles Stilinski [12:05PM]**

**DEREK ELIZABETH HALE!!!**

—before he shuts it off, slipping it into his pocket. He walks into the building and finds the desk for Skydive Colorado.

“I’d like to take a jump today,” Derek tells the man there.

“Do you have training?” he asks Derek.

“No.”

“A tandem jump it is then. That means the instructor will be strapped to your back,” the man tells him.

“That’s fine.”

It takes fifteen minutes to work out the details, and then another half hour while Derek meets the instructor and is taught the basics. For the most part, the instructor will be taking control; he’ll be controlling the toggles on the parachute after it opens, but Derek gets to pull the cord himself. The instructor straps a vest to Derek’s chest so that he can practice a few times, and then they get into a plane. They suit up as the plane gains altitude and makes its way to the drop zone, and Derek peeks out the window a few times to see the earth disappearing below them. When they’re finally in position, the instructor buckles himself snug against Derek’s back and does a final check on the equipment. Then he opens the hatch.

Wind gushes into the cabin of the aircraft and the instructor yells over the rush, “Are you ready?”

“Whenever you are,” Derek tells him.

The instructor counts down, and when he reaches one, they leap from the plane, limbs spread-eagled. Derek’s eyes are open wide and the air blows out of him as he takes in the view. The earth looks patchy below him, separated into plots and farmland. Rolling hills cut with highways and a stretch of mountains in the distance. The wind whips at Derek’s hair and clothes, and he can hear the instructor shouting instructions in his ear. After they’ve been freefalling for almost a minute, the instructor shouts at Derek to pull the cord.

At that moment, Derek’s vision blurs, clouded by the thoughts in his head. He imagines not pulling the cord and just falling forever. His heart thuds in his throat. He no longer has a pack and Cora left because he was a liability. She said herself that he can’t help anyone, so what is the use in sticking around? No one needs him. He isn’t happy, hasn’t been in years. Falling, when Derek thinks about it, does not seem like a bad way to die.

Then he remembers Stiles and the text conversation they just had. He imagines Stiles waiting for his call and then driving for two days out to Colorado for a dead body. He doesn’t picture Stiles being sad, exactly. Instead he pictures disappointment, and that’s even worse. He pictures Stiles looking at him with distaste and telling him, ‘ _You’re not who I thought you’d be_ ,’ and somehow that hurts more coming from Stiles than it did from Cora.

The instructor shouts in Derek’s ear a second time, “PULL THE CORD!”

Derek’s gloved hand fumbles for the plastic nub on the end of the rope and yanks hard on it. The parachute billows out of the bag on the instructor’s back and they fetch up as the wind catches on the cloth. Now they descend slowly, and Derek’s hands are stuck in fists.

 

Later, when Derek gets to his car, he turns his phone back on and calls Stiles. He picks up after one ring.

“ _You’re an asshole! A fucking asshole!_ ” Stiles yells. “ _I could drive out to Colorado and kill you!_ ”

“That desperate for my money?” asks Derek.

There’s a second of shocked, enraged silence from Stiles’ end before he hisses, “ _You’re an_ ass!” and hangs up.

Derek smirks and is about to replace his phone in his pocket when it vibrates.

**Stiles Stilinski [02:59PM]**

**Thanks for not committing suicide.**

Derek raises an eyebrow.

**Me [02:59PM]**

**Didn’t know it meant that much to you.**

He pockets the device and gets into his Toyota, pulling out of the parking lot and back onto the highway. If he keeps up a good speed, Derek can reach Wyoming by seven tonight. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I most definitely won't be able to update until reading week (Feb 15-23). I have midterms and everything is really hectic right now in terms of assignments, and on top of that I have to teach myself chemistry because my professor's approach is completely useless. I've really wanted to get this next chapter done, but I just haven't had time and it's rather upsetting.


	3. Cross Pollination (Part Two)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's been so long! Please let me know if there are mistakes, as this is completely unbeta-ed. Thank you all so much!

Seattle

 

 

Derek sits on the pier at the marina in Seattle. Seagulls cry above him and the sound of waves permeates the air. The October air is chilly, forcing Derek into his leather jacket, but it’s a nice change from the humidity of Louisiana. The salt smell burns faintly at his nostrils, but even the bay has a unique smell to the other ocean regions Derek has visited.

Scott called yesterday to give his weekly update. He told Derek that earlier in the week, he almost lost control at school. Stiles had to herd him into an empty classroom to get a hold of himself. It sounds like Stiles hasn’t been doing so great either. He’s been having difficulty telling the difference between his dreams and reality, and he had a panic attack in class. Scott told Derek that his mom said he should be his own anchor. Derek told Scott to take those words to heart and gained a newfound respect for Melissa McCall.

The werecoyote came as no surprise, nor did Stiles’ call half an hour after Derek finished talking to Scott.

“ _You_ knew _there was a werecoyote girl in the preserve and you didn’t think to tell anyone?!_ ” Stiles yelled.

“I didn’t know who she was,” said Derek. “Wolves and coyotes don’t really mix; we kept our distance from each other. Anyway, she never hurt anyone so I figured it was none of my business.”

Stiles made a noise of disbelief. “ _I can’t even with you! You could have saved us so much trouble! Her father thought she was dead for eight years!”_

“Maybe her father and I can start a support group. The demographic will be people who have recently found their long lost relatives. We’ll call it, ‘ _I Thought you were Dead: the Aftermath._ ’”

Stiles spluttered. “ _I can’t believe you!_ ” He hung up and called moments later to say, “ _And by the way, that wasn’t funny. I’m the comic relief; get your own job, jackass,_ ” before abruptly hanging up on Derek again.

Derek hears approaching footsteps on the wooden pier and stiffens a little, ready to jump to his feet at a moment’s notice, as he hears them slow down. A man in his sixties walks past Derek and turns down onto one of the docks to stand by a fishing boat. The boat is old, but it looks well taken care of. Across the side of it, in faded green paint, is the name of the craft: _Alyssa._ The man drops the coiled rope in his arms into the boat and squints at Derek with his icy blue eyes. He has a scraggly beard and moustache and salt and pepper hair covered with a bright red cap with a white W in the middle. 

“Waiting for somebody?” the man asks.

“Not really,” says Derek.

The man cocks his head. “How much can you lift?”

Derek raises an eyebrow. “You look like you’re in pretty good shape.”

“Well I know how much _I_ can lift. I’m asking _you_.” The man smirks.

Derek sighs. “More than you would think.”

The man nods with approval. “Good. The name’s Nicholas Pearce, but everyone calls me Nick. Help me carry some equipment from my truck and I’ll make it worthwhile.”

The man walks toward the parking lot and Derek follows him even as he says, “I don’t need money.”

“Good thing I’m not offering you money then. Where are you from?”

“California.”

“What’s your name?” The man leads Derek to a green pickup truck and unlocks the tailgate, lowering it.

“Derek Hale.” Derek puts a foot up on the hitch on the back of the truck so that he can lean into the bed and grab onto one of the plastic crates, hauling it out with ease.

“Derek Hale, huh?” says Nick, wrinkling his nose as he looks at Derek’s face speculatively. “You don’t look like much of a Derek to me. You look more like a Lieutenant Dan.”

Derek looks down at his legs, then back up at Nick pointedly.

“There are more ways for a man to be crippled than losing his legs,” says Nick.

Derek huffs. “If your idea of payment is to offer me philosophical advice, I am putting this crate right back into the truck.”

Nick chuckles. “Nah. Get that other crate, would you?”

Derek takes the second crate from the truck and stacks it on top of the first before closing the tailgate, then he hoists the crates into his arms with ease. Nick directs Derek back to his boat where he has Derek deposit the crates on the deck near the sheltered bridge.

Derek dusts off his hands on his jeans and looks up at Nick. “That it?”

“Well,” says Nick, “I _am_ getting on in my years. My daughter doesn’t like when I go fishing alone.”

Derek scowls at him. “You’re a manipulative bastard.”

Nick grins. “Untie the rope and let’s get this piece of junk out on the bay.”

Once the boat has been freed, Nick starts the engine and drives her out of the marina. Derek goes to the port side and leans his elbows on the railing, looking out over the water as they drift farther from the shore. The sky is overcast, shrouding the world in grey.

“You know anything about boats, Lieutenant Dan?” asks Nick.

Derek points in each direction and says, “Port, bow, stern, starboard.”

Nick looks over his shoulder at Derek, unimpressed. “Anyone can watch a movie and tell you that, dummy.”

Derek grits his teeth with annoyance.

“This is a seiner,” Nick tells him. “Now see that netting piled over there? You’re going to toss it out into the water when I say so.”

Derek moves to the stern next to the netting. The net is lined with white bobbers.

“So what’s in the crates?” he asks. They smell like fish and blood.

“Bait,” says Nick.

Derek peeks over the back rails to watch the water churn behind the seiner.

“After you throw out the net, you’re going to slowly dump the bait as I circle round to stretch it out,” Nick instructs him.

“Sure, Forrest,” says Derek. He takes off his jacket and hangs it up inside the bridge before going back to the stern. When Nick shouts for him to drop the net, Derek gathers the large bundle in his arms and throws it over the rails with ease before he goes for the first crate. When Derek opens the plastic lid, he recoils with a noise of disgust as the smell of fish and blood intensifies tenfold. He tips the crate over the side, dumping fish viscera into the water alongside the spreading net.

“Smells pretty awful, doesn’t it?” says Nick.

“A little ironic that we’re using fish guts to attract more fish,” Derek says.

“Fish are dumber than people.”

Derek clicks his tongue, thinking of someone else he knows who would sooner approach a pile of human innards than turn tail and run; though Derek doubts Stiles would be approaching them with the intent of eating them. Stiles would go simply because all of his self-preservation instincts are screaming at him not to, and because curiosity has always won out over his disgust. He would make either a great wolf or the worst one. Derek will kill Scott if he ever gives Stiles the bite.

Derek dumps the other crate out into the bay and when the white bobbers lining the net form an arc, Nick cuts the engine and lets the seiner drift to a halt. The empty crates, streaked with blood and other bodily fluids, sit against the rail. Derek wipes his hands on his jeans and turns to face Nick, who is now leaning against the frame of the bridge as he eyes Derek.

“You’ve got quite the arms there,” he says. “Lifted those crates like they were pillows.”

“Told you I can lift more than you’d think,” Derek quips.

The corner of Nick’s mouth lifts and he nods with acknowledgement. “That you did.”

Nick turns around then, going back to the bridge and plucking a novel off of the dashboard. He takes a seat in the lawn chair up against the wall and props his feet up, leaving Derek to his own devices. Derek looks out at the water and wonders how cold it would be if he were to jump in. The lake at Tickfaw was lukewarm with the sun, and even when Derek bathed in the river, the water was a pleasant sort of cold. Here in the mid-October chill of Washington State, Derek thinks the water would be quite cold even with the warm water current that runs along the northwestern coast.

After a while, Derek grows bored and turns to Nick.

“I don’t understand,” he says.

Nick rests the book on his lap and turns his head to raise an eyebrow at Derek.

“Why are you trusting me out here with you?” he asks. “You know nothing about me.”

Nick shrugs. “I reckon I’m a pretty good judge of character. I’m not in the bay, watching you drive away with my boat, so it seems my senses haven’t failed me yet.”

“Maybe I just don’t know how to drive a boat,” says Derek.

Nick smirks. “That very well could be the case.” He raises his book again. Derek wanders over to the bridge and finds a copy of _1984_ by George Orwell on the dashboard. He makes a face as he picks it up and sits down cross-legged. Nick chuckles. “Not an Orwell fan?”

“It’s a good book,” Derek says, “but I prefer Bradbury.”

Nick smiles. “You like happy endings.”

Derek throws him a withering look.

“Hopeful endings then,” Nick amends.

Derek doesn’t dignify him with a response.

They read in silence for the next few hours. Half a dozen times, Derek wants to ask Nick why he brought him along again, but when he looks up from the pages of the book in his hands, Nick appears like a statue where he’s seated with his own novel. It reminds Derek a little of his father. He was a quiet man, when he was alive. Before Paige, Derek had been his opposite. Afterward, they would sit in companionable silence together, every so often exchanging a few words in a soft tone. He was human. He could have escaped his fate when Kate burned the house to the ground, unbound by the mountain ash that lined the perimeter. Burning there, that night, had been his own choice. Sometimes Derek envies him for it.

When Nick finally sets his book down, Derek looks up eagerly, the boredom having long set in.

“Alright,” says Nick. “Let’s haul her in.” He brings Derek over to the pulley system the net is attached to and grabs onto the handle. “Help me crank this, would you?”

Derek takes a hold of the metal grip, bracketing Nick’s hands, and together they turn it, slowly dragging in the net. Derek downplays his strength a little, not wanting to cause suspicion, and as more of the net is pulled in, he hears the wet sound of slick flesh and smells the stench of aquatic bodies. He wrinkles his nose and keeps turning the crank until Nick tells him to go open the net. Derek walks over to the writhing mass of twine and terrified fish and tugs the net open, sending the salmon cascading over his shoes and the deck of the seiner. They flop pathetically on the wooden boards. Derek looks over at Nick for further instruction.

“Well,” Nick says, “let’s get them packed up.” He grabs a plastic barrel from the side of the deck and carries it over, opening the lid. Derek scoops up an armful of salmon, dampening his shirt, and drops them in.

 

When the seiner pulls up to the dock, Derek hops over the side with the rope and ties her to the post Nick points out to him. Nick takes the empty crates while Derek takes the barrels of salmon one by one, hoisting them into the back of Nick’s truck. When they’re finished, Nick brushes his hands against his jeans and squints at Derek.

“How long are you in Washington?” he asks.

Derek shrugs.

“Don’t got somewhere you need to be? What about a job to get back to?”

“Nope,” says Derek.

“Where are you planning on staying?” asks Nick.

“A hotel, I guess.”

Nick raises an eyebrow. “You’re unemployed, and yet you can afford to bum around in a hotel for as long as you’d like?”

Derek narrows his eyes at him. “I didn’t come by the money illegally, if that’s what you’re implying.”

Nick holds his hands up in surrender. “Tell you what, Lieutenant, if you help an old man finish off the season, you can stay with me and my family free of charge. We’ve got a guest bedroom and my wife is a pretty mean cook.”

Derek watches Nick carefully. The man doesn’t smell of anything more sinister than fish and human, but Derek has known some very dangerous humans in his relatively short time on this Earth. He contemplates the idea of sleeping on a bed that’s been abused by far too much sex between far too many bodies versus the idea of sleeping in a clean bed that leaves him more vulnerable.

“We’ll see,” Derek says.

Nick smirks triumphantly. “That we will. Just follow my truck and I’ll lead you back to my place.”

The drive is shorter than Derek expects it to be. They pull into the driveway of a small, two storey house in the suburbs with a well-maintained flowerbed. Nick opens the garage and Derek helps bring in the barrels of fish, dumping them into a large freezer that reminds Derek rather unpleasantly of the one Isaac’s father used to trap his teenage son inside of.

 When they’re done, stinking of fish and sweat, Nick leads Derek to the front door and heads in, calling out, “Wendy, I’m home! Also I hope you don’t mind that I’ve brought home a stray.”

Derek trails in after Nick nervously as he hears a woman bustling over.

“A stray?” says a female voice. “What on Earth are you talking about?” A woman with pale, greying blond hair and grey eyes turns the corner and pauses when she sees Derek. Her eyebrows furrow with confusion and nerves as she meets Nick’s eyes. “Who’s this?” Derek slips his hands into his pockets and hunches his shoulders slightly to pose a less threatening image.

“Wendy,” says Nick, “this is Derek. He’s a tourist from California. Saw him loitering around the marina this morning and employed his help.”

Wendy sighs, closing her eyes with exasperation. “Nicholas, one of these days you’re going to trust the wrong person and—”

“Hasn’t happened yet!” Nick exclaims. Derek shuffles backward uncomfortably. “Look, you’re making him shy.”

Derek shoots Nick a sharp glare before he hears a piercing sound and just barely resists wincing and clapping his hands over his ears. A small, freckled girl, maybe five or six years old, runs past the entryway, shrieking with delight and laughing as a young woman with a round, pregnant belly chases after her. The girl stops suddenly and turns staring at Derek with wide eyes. The woman chasing her clasps a hand on her shoulder and says, “Got you!” before noticing the child’s straying attention and turning toward Derek. The woman addresses Nick. “Who is this, Dad?”

“Alyssa,” says Nick to the woman, then he inclines his head to the little girl. “Hayley, this is Derek. I’ve invited him to stay here for a while.”

Hayley goes to her mother and curls her fingers in the young woman’s maternity shirt, peeking at Derek with blue-grey eyes from around the curve of her body. Alyssa runs her fingers through Haley’s hair and gives Derek a tight-lipped smile.

Wendy is still engaging in a staring match with her husband. “ _Nick._ ”

Derek takes another step back toward the door. “This was a mistake. Look, I appreciate the offer, but—”

“Honey, I’m sorry,” says Wendy, who finally looks at Derek again. She walks over and extends a hand. “I’m Wendy.” Derek stares at her hand, conflicted for a moment before she says, “Oh, for heaven’s sake. My husband is a fisherman; I’m used to it by now.”

Cautiously, Derek takes her hand and shakes it in a gentle grip. Alyssa takes this as her cue to come over and shake Derek’s hand as well, now smiling at him with less strain.

“Hayley, can you say hello to Derek?” Alyssa asks her daughter, who still clings to the back of her shirt. The little girl shakes her head furiously, staring at Derek with wide eyes. Alyssa laughs and tells Derek, “Don’t worry about it; she’s just shy.”

Derek says, “Okay,” and Nick sends him out to grab his duffel bag so that he can get situated in the guest bedroom. Alyssa shows Derek the way when he comes back inside, asking where he’s from.

“My husband is from California,” she says with a smile when Derek answers. “What made you decide to go off on your own?”

Derek shrugs, feigning nonchalance as he takes inventory of the guest room. The double bed is made up with blue blankets and the walls are a soft cream colour. The furniture is all oak wood, likely second-hand. On the dresser are a mirror, a framed photograph, and a vase of fake flowers. The décor is simple, impersonal, but not cold.

“Thanks for helping me out,” Derek says. “And I’m sorry for intruding like this.”

Alyssa waves a hand. “It’s not the first time Dad’s done this and it won’t be the last. Trust me, he wouldn’t have taken no for an answer.”

Derek sets his bag by the foot of the bed and inhales; the sheets smell of detergent, a different brand from the scent on Alyssa’s clothing. The guest room has been cleaned fairly recently, so the only lingering scents belong to the family.

“Is there wifi here?” Derek asks.

“Yeah,” says Alyssa. “Got a laptop?”

“No,” says Derek. “Just my phone.”

“I gave Dad my old laptop, but he never uses it,” Alyssa tells him. “If you like, I could bring it down and you can use the guest account. One of the first things I did when I gave the laptop to my dad was download Skype so that we could keep in touch; you can use it if you want to talk to your friends from home.”

“That would be great. Thanks,” Derek says.

Alyssa smiles and leaves to retrieve the laptop.

Dinner, when Derek has settled in, is a family affair. A red haired man enters the house, prompting an enthusiastic greeting from everyone. Alyssa’s daughter runs to him, yelling, “Daddy!” and jumps into his arms. The man pauses with Hayley in his arms when he enters the dining room to find Derek seated at the table. Derek keeps his face blank and stares back at him steadily.

“Alyssa,” the man says without looking away from Derek, “is this your way of telling me that you’re having an affair?”

Alyssa laughs. “Roger, this is Derek. Derek, this is my husband, Roger. Dad found him by the marina and took him home.”

Roger chuckles and turns to his wife. “’ _Found him by the marina._ ’ You make it sound like he’s a stray cat.”

“Actually, I’m more of a dog person,” says Derek.

Roger smirks and sets down his daughter before extending a hand. “Roger Brosnan; nice to meet you. Last time Nick adopted a stray, it was me. Welcome to the family.”

Derek shakes his hand. “Derek Hale, and I just met Nick today. I wouldn’t call myself family.”

Roger’s smirk widens. “ _Yet_.”

After dinner, Derek helps clear the table and washes the dishes with Wendy. When everything has been cleaned up, Roger, Alyssa, and Hayley leave for their own home and Derek retires to the guest room. Feeling slightly less uncomfortable, Derek opens the borrowed laptop in his temporary bedroom and logs into his old Skype account. There are a few old contacts from New York online—members of the resident pack that let him and Laura stay there in peace after the fire—but the rest have blank icons next to their names, dead to the world in more ways than one.

After a moment’s hesitation, Derek texts Cora.

**Me [06:49PM]**

**Do you have Skype?**

As soon as the message sends, Derek ignores his phone in favor of opening the copy of _Lord of the Flies_ in his duffel-bag, having finished _Farenheit 451_ in a motel on the way up to Washington. His heart skips a beat when his phone vibrates with a new text message.

**Cora Hale [07:14PM]**

**Yeah. corahale18.**

Derek adds her as a contact, and moments later the icon turns green, announcing that she’s online. Derek clicks on the contact and presses the video call button, holding his breath. Moments later, a poor quality webcam feed is showing up on the screen and there’s Cora. The glow of the computer screen casts a ghostly light on her face. In the corner of the screen, an icon shows the feed from Derek’s webcam. He scowls when he sees the look on webcam Derek’s face, then ignores it in favor of his sister.

“Hey,” Derek says.

“Hey,” says Cora. “It’s been a while.”

“Yeah… I’ve been trying to do what you told me to do.”

“How’s that working out for you?” Cora asks. Derek tries to examine the room Cora’s in, but it gives nothing away. All he can see of it is a blank wall; she could be anywhere.  

“I’m staying with a fisherman right now,” Derek tells her. “He’s weird.”

“You think everyone who isn’t paranoid is weird,” says Cora.

“I don’t think you’re weird.”

“Exactly.”

“This guy is the opposite of paranoid. He had me out on a boat with him in the middle of nowhere with no one else around, and now he’s brought me back to his house. I just met him _today_.”

Cora makes a face. “Humans are stupid.”

“Tell me about it,” Derek agrees. They talk for the next twenty minutes, both remaining vague about their locations. They end the call on good terms, and Derek feels better than he has since his hunt in Louisiana. Before going to bed, Derek takes a shower and brushes his teeth, avoiding his reflection in the mirror. After sleeping in so many motels, the guest bed is heavenly when Derek lays in it. The human scents are faint and the sheets are crisp and cool against his skin. If Derek dreams that night, he doesn’t remember it. Nick wakes him up in the morning to help him go fishing.

Derek’s life falls into a pattern over the next few days. Every morning, he has coffee and breakfast with Nick before fishing. Every two days, they empty the fish in the freezer to send to the market with Roger. On those days, Roger, Alyssa, and Hayley join them for dinner. Before bed, Derek showers and sometimes, Nick or Wendy will catch him in the living room to chat idly at him. Derek doesn’t even realize what’s missing until he receives a text from Stiles on Thursday.

**Stiles Stilinski [07:46PM]**

**Tomato plants can use mind control on insects. Spread the word. #stoptomatos2011**

Derek frowns. He hasn’t heard from Stiles since last Friday. He didn’t think Stiles was that pissed about the werecoyote girl.

**Me [07:47PM]**

**And here I thought I was finally free.**

**Stiles Stilinski [07:47PM]**

**Hilarious. Are you calling your mind insectile?**

**Me [07:48PM]**

**Now that you mention it, I suddenly lack the brain capacity to distinguish your face from a punching bag.**

**Stiles Stilinski [07:48PM]**

**Oh wow that was real original. Why don’t you go pat yourself on the back? Maybe have a few Snausages if you’re feeling extra indulgent.**

Derek rolls his eyes before texting again.

**Me [07:50PM]**

**Did you guys ever figure things out with the werecoyote girl?**

**Stiles Stilinski [07:51PM]**

**Yeah Scott found his anchor and roared her into submission or whatever. Changed her back to a human. Guess you can start your support group now.**

**Me [07:52PM]**

**I’ll keep that in mind.**

For a brief moment, Derek thinks about asking where Stiles was the last few days, but then he decides he doesn’t care. Stiles is here now, so clearly he’s fine now—or as fine as he can be, considering what Scott has said about their condition after becoming surrogate sacrifices for the Nemeton.

The next day, as Derek helps load the last barrel of fish into the back of Nick’s pickup truck, he catches sight of a young woman around his own age with dyed blue hair. She stands in the mouth of an alley across the street from the parking lot, leaning against the brick wall next to her, and when her eyes meet Derek’s, they flash yellow. Derek stares after her as she smirks and turns around, walking down the alley.

“I’ll meet you back at the house,” Derek tells Nick without tearing his eyes away from the woman. “I have to check something.”

Nick shrugs. “Good luck with whatever it is, Lieutenant Dan.” He gets in the truck without argument and Derek strides at a brisk pace across the street, following the woman’s scent now that she has turned out of sight. She must have taken off at a run after turning the first corner because Derek can’t see her, but she left a clear scent trail, must have stretched out a hand to run it along the wall. The trail eventually leads to the back of an Italian restaurant where eight other men and women are waiting with the blue-haired Beta. Derek scents the air; most of the people in front of him are werewolves, but there are two humans among them. One smells strongly of herbs and mountain ash—an emissary. A tall, ebony-skinned man who appears to be in his late thirties steps forward, irises glowing red. Derek knows he should drop his gaze, but instinct holds his eyes on the Alpha’s as he turns his head slightly to the side, presenting his throat in a show of respect.

“My name is Niall Williams,” says the Alpha in a smooth baritone. “What brings you here, Omega?”

“Escape,” says Derek, facing him head-on again.

“Show me your eyes,” says Niall.

Derek bends his knees slightly, ready to spring into action at a moment’s notice as he lets blue bleed into his eyes. The packs’ stances stiffen at the sight.

“If you are running from Hunters,” says Niall, “you will find no refuge here, Omega. This is established territory.”

“I know,” says Derek. One of the Betas growls lowly, glancing at his Alpha for a signal to attack, but Niall remains still.

“Explain why you never announced your presence to me then,” says Niall. “My Betas gave you adequate time to come to me of your own free will.”

“I didn’t know how long I’d be staying here for,” Derek tells him honestly. “I could still leave any day.”

“What are you running from, Omega?” Niall’s voice is hard.

“My name is Derek Hale.”

A hush falls over the pack. The humans and some of the younger wolves look merely confused, but for those who are older, Niall included, there is a sense of sudden understanding and they relax their postures.

“You’re a long way from home, Little Hale,” says Niall.

“I don’t have a home in Beacon Hills,” Derek says. “Not anymore.”

“Liar.”

Derek glares, hands curling into fists, but he makes no move against the Alpha and Niall makes no move to defend himself.

“You are free to stay for now, Little Hale,” says Niall, “but if you cause trouble I expect you to be gone within twenty-four hours, or else I won’t hesitate to wipe out the last of your lineage.”

 _They don’t know about Cora_ , Derek reminds himself, and he nods with acquiescence.

“Good.” Niall leans on one leg casually and lets an easy smile grace his lips. “I’d like to introduce you to my second and my emissary.”

The blue-haired Beta steps forward with a man a few years older than her with brown hair, blue eyes, and a well-maintained beard. He’s well-dressed and past the herbs, he smells of chalk dust—a teacher. The Beta’s fingers are laced with the emissary’s.

“Shianne and Jacob,” Niall says. “I would trust these two with far more than my own life.”

“It is an honour to meet you,” says Derek.

The emissary steps forward, eyebrows drawing together with confusion. “Last I heard, you were an Alpha.”

“I gave it up for someone important to me,” Derek tells him.

One of the Betas whistles and Jacob asks, “Who was it?”

Derek smiles sardonically. “Someone who is beyond both your reach and mine.”

Jacob is about to ask another question when Niall intercepts him to say, “Let Hale keep his secrets.” Then the Alpha turns to Derek. “The full moon is coming up soon. Run with us.”

“I would be honoured,” says Derek.

Niall grins, white teeth peeking through dark lips. “Until then, Little Hale.”

The pack disperses, branching off into other smaller alleys, and Derek leaves the way he came, making his way back to his Toyota. Nick doesn’t ask Derek where he went when he returns, for which Derek is grateful, and dinner is a quiet, but pleasant affair. After Derek showers and retires to his room, he turns on his borrowed laptop and finds a new contact notification on Skype. He frowns at the username, ‘slowkidatplay’, but when he reads the message along with it, he groans before accepting the new contact. Almost immediately, a box pops up announcing a call. Derek sighs as he clicks on the video call, scowling as Stiles’ face appears on the computer screen.

“Oh look, you’re not in prison yet,” says Stiles.

“No one’s accused me of murder lately,” Derek quips. “It’s been nice.”

“The second time was all on Scott,” Stiles argues. “He’s the one who said it was you; I couldn’t counter his story. Also, we thought you were dead.”

“And the first time?”

“You were a creepy jackass I knew virtually nothing about. Now you’re just a creepy jackass I know moderately well.”

Derek raises his eyebrows.

“A creepy jackass I know _relatively_ well compared to everybody else who knows nothing about you, excepting Peter and Cora who are in fact your relatives. Maybe Isaac. Did you tell Isaac much about yourself? And _woah,_ okay, nevermind. I am taking those eyebrows as a resounding ‘ _no_ ’.”

Derek examines Stiles through the camera feed. There are dark circles of exhaustion under his eyes and his hair looks less artfully styled and more like he’s been running his hands through it out of stress.

“So what have you been doing?” Stiles asks.

“Met with a local pack today,” Derek tells him.

Stiles’ eyes widen and he sits forward. “Really? Did they threaten you with death? Was there maiming involved?”

“The Williams pack isn’t as old as my family’s,” says Derek, “but they’ve been established for a while. They just gave me a warning to stay out of trouble.”

“On pain of death?”

Derek sighs. “Yes, Stiles. On pain of death.”

Stiles pauses now, just looking at his screen. Derek remains still under the scrutiny.

“Are you okay?” Stiles asks. “Like in general, are you okay?”

“Are _you?_ ” Derek asks pointedly.

Stiles grimaces. “Point taken.” He abruptly shifts his posture and his facial expression relaxes. “So did you know that the octopus is one of the most intelligent species on Earth?”

Derek raises his eyebrows.

“It’s true! Scientists suspect that they would create cultures and societies if they had the lifespan for it,” Stiles continues. “They’re basically aquatic humans.”

“Fascinating,” Derek says sarcastically.

“Hey, it’s educational!” Stiles protests. “You’re learning valuable things here!”

“I can’t really see how knowing octopi are sentient will be useful to me in the future.”

“And now you have sealed your fate: just wait, Derek Hale. Next time your life is threatened, you’ll need to know this information. It will be like that Bridge of Death scene in _The Holy Grail_ or something, and you’ll be left there cursing yourself for ignoring my important knowledge.”

Derek sighs. “Tell me about octopi, Stiles.”

“I don’t think so, Derek. You missed that train because you thought you were too good for it. Now you’ll never know just how smart octopi are.”

“I’m beside myself.”

Stiles snorts a laugh. “Anyway, I’d better get going. Life awaits and Lydia’s coming over soon to help figure some shit out.”

“I’ll leave you to it then,” says Derek.

“I’ll talk to you later!” says Stiles, and with a small wave, he disconnects from the call. Derek opens up a browser and searches for documentaries about octopi on YouTube.

 

There are three voices coming from above him, all female. Two of them are laughing, chatting with each other pleasantly. The third voice, _Cora’s_ voice, is screaming.

Derek is in the burnt out ruins of the Hale house and the world is shrouded in darkness, and yet he knows, absently, that it is not night. There’s an eclipse, leaving Derek as weak and vulnerable as any human. He can’t find his sister by scent, can’t see in the darkness. Cora screams high and loud, and Derek’s heart jumps into his throat.

“Cora!” he yells. “I’m coming!” Derek runs for the stairs, trips over a chunk of debris, and is sent sprawling to the steps, scraping his elbows and forearms. The pain is sharp and Derek is acutely aware of the fact that it isn’t healing, knows that whatever is being done to Cora, she’s not healing from either. He scrambles to his feet and climbs the stairs hunched over, slapping the steps above him with one hand to orient himself as he goes. When the floor levels out, Derek opens the first door; nothing. He hears a scream. “ _Cora!_ ” Derek presses a hand to the wall of the hallway, ignoring the splinters that pierce his palm as he rushes toward his bedroom. When his hand reaches that familiar door, he throws it open and takes in the scene.

Cora, battered and bruised, is kneeling on the bed with tears streaking her face. Standing on the floor just behind her, Jennifer Blake has a garrotte wrapped around his sister’s throat. To the side, Kate Argent holds a wickedly curved blade. The only face Derek is surprised to see is Peter’s. Peter is sitting on Derek’s desk, using the chair as a footrest. He sets the book down as Derek enters the room and smiles at him coolly.

“Why are you letting them do this?” Derek demands. “You helped me _save_ her!”

Peter gives him a pitying look. “Oh, Derek, when are you going to learn? People never change.” He picks up the lamp on Derek’s desk, examining it thoughtfully before he gets to his feet on the floor, walking over to Cora, Kate, and Jennifer at a leisurely pace.

“Peter, no!” Fear tugs at Derek’s insides and his legs tense as he goes to spring for Peter, put a stop to this madness, but his limbs won’t obey. Derek is frozen in place. Peter is close enough to touch Cora. “Stop!”

Cora’s eyes are wide with terror, staring at her brother. “ _DEREK!”_ she screams.

Peter holds back the lamp and brings it down on the back of her head with a sickening crunch and Jennifer pulls the garrotte taut, cutting off Cora’s oxygen. Even stripped of his senses, Derek can smell the blood.

“ _CORA!_ ” Derek cries. He struggles to move, but it’s like being poisoned by kanima venom; nothing will move below his neck.

Kate tangles one hand in thick, blood-slick hair and hauls Cora’s head back, exposing her neck. She grins as she brings the knife toward that pale expanse.

“ _No, no, no, no, no!_ ”

The blade splits flesh like butter and Cora’s throat gapes open in a hellish mimicry of her mouth. Blood pours down her front, soaking her clothes and the bedspread below, and Derek screams. After a long, drawn out minute, Jennifer releases the garrotte from his little sister’s mangled neck and lets her body topple off the end of the bed and onto the floor like a broken doll. Her three murderers approach Derek now, Kate and Jennifer each taking one of Derek’s arms as Peter hooks a hand around the back of Derek’s neck casually.

“You see, I knew that taking Cora would lure you here,” Peter says as they bring Derek toward the bed. For some reason, he can’t make his feet stop.

“ _Why?_ ” Derek asks, voice breaking. “She’s our _family_.”

“Because you have something that I want,” Peter answers. “You took it from me, and now I’m going to take it back.”

Derek shakes his head as Kate and Jennifer force him to kneel on the bed where Cora had been moments ago. Her blood soaks into his jeans.

“I’m not an Alpha anymore,” Derek says. Jennifer releases his arm and Derek feels the garrotte slip around his neck wetly. Kate drops his arm in favor of picking up the knife she left on the floor. Peter picks up the lamp and tests its weight before he turns a smile on Derek, patting his cheek with a free hand.

“This will all be over very soon, nephew.” He raises the lamp and pain shatters Derek’s temple before the world goes dark.

 

A clock is ticking somewhere in the house, and Derek can hear the steady breathing of Nick and Wendy down the hall. Outside, the occasional car passes down the street and a dog barks twice.

He lays there for a long time before he pulls the blankets over his head and curls in on himself, clutching his stomach. His eyes are clenched shut and he feels his body begin to tremble, his bones the tectonic plates that grind together and shake him apart. A knot of pain forms in his stomach and pushes its way up, up his chest and into his lungs, and up into his trachea until it reaches his mouth, breaking out of him with a harsh sob. Derek grabs his pillow as he sobs again, pulling it to his face to muffle his sounds. The pillowcase dampens with tears and Derek hates himself, intensely.

God, he’s disgusting.

 

The room lightens gradually. Derek regained control of himself some time ago and has since uncurled and stretched out his limbs. There’s a gentle knock on the door, and then it opens. Even through the comforter still over Derek’s head, he can smell Nick’s scent.

“Time to get up,” Nick says. “We’ve got work to do.”

“Can’t,” Derek croaks.

Nick pauses in the doorway, and then there’s the soft sound of feet padding closer to the bed. The hair raises on the back of Derek’s neck and he gets the sudden feeling that he is about to be touched.

“Don’t!” he shouts, tensing under the blankets.

Above him, Derek hears Nick sigh and straighten up. “Alright,” says Nick. “I’ll take Roger today. You just… do what you need to do.” The footsteps retreat, but Derek doesn’t relax when the door closes, or even when the sounds of life disappear from the kitchen and the rumble of Nick’s truck fades in the distance. The minutes tick by and lead weights are tied to Derek’s wrists and ankles, holding him in place. Derek listens to the clock.

 

There’s a piano in the living room. Derek always ignored it, for the most part, put it out of his mind. He never really thought to wonder what Wendy does while he and Nick are gone either. But now, a few hours after Wendy gets up and starts moving around, there’s a knock on the front door.

He hears the soothing tones of Wendy’s voice, the voice of another woman and the high-pitched babbling of a young child. The voices migrate to the living room, and then Derek listens to Wendy talk to the child about notes and scales. Expert fingers pluck out simple notes on the piano keys, and then clumsy hands repeat the notes back. This goes on for the next hour, and then Wendy wraps up the lesson and the child and his mother leaves. There’s a moment of peace, and then Wendy is tapping at Derek’s door.

“Derek?” she says quietly. “Nicholas told me you’re not feeling well. Would you like some lunch? I’m making soup and grilled cheese sandwiches.”

Derek’s hands grip the blankets and he raises his head just enough so that his voice won’t be too muffled as he says, “I’m not hungry.” After a moment’s pause, he adds, “Thank you for offering.”

Wendy sighs, but she doesn’t argue with him, doesn’t try to mother him. Instead, she just says, “Feel better, Derek,” before retreating to the kitchen. There’s an hour of peace as Wendy makes and eats her lunch, and then someone else comes to the door; another piano lesson. Derek listens to their naïve voices and at once envies and despises them.

Derek has never been at odds with his identity as a werewolf. It’s how he was born and that’s how he will die. And yet for all his strength and heightened senses, he will never know a life without fear, a life in which he isn’t under near-constant threat. These humans will never be hunted like vermin in the dead of night, will never watch their families burn alive for the crime of existing. They will grow up and fall in love and have beautiful children, and when they’re old, they’ll die of cancer or an aneurysm in their sleep, and row upon row, they’ll all have matching headstones that proclaim, ‘ _Everything was beautiful and nothing hurt_.’

It is the philosophy of almost all hunters that werewolves are blood-thirsty savages, animals to be put down and mindless killers. All the while, humans slaughter each other left and right, start wars and drop bombs, hit their wives and abuse their children. But at the end of the day, as the smell of smoke and wolfsbane permeates the air and the hunters clean the blood from their weapons, they pat themselves on the back for protecting mankind from the devastating power of werewolves.

Derek misses Cora intensely. He doesn’t dare call her. After a few hours and a few more piano lessons, he hears Wendy greet someone at the door with enthusiasm and a voice shouting gleefully, “ _Grandma!_ ” Alyssa asks where Derek is and Wendy tells her that he’s feeling under the weather. As Alyssa and Wendy chat, Derek hears the tell-tale sound of the piano cover being pushed back, and then the first few notes of Beethoven’s _Moonlight Sonata._ When the hands fumble, Derek lets out a frustrated puff of air and sits up, shoving back the blankets. He grabs a shirt and hauls it over his head, then he pulls open his bedroom door and stomps down the stairs. The voices stop and Derek walks into the living room where Wendy and Alyssa are seated on the couch, looking up at him with surprise, and Hayley is seated at the piano.

Derek goes to the piano bench and grunts, “ _Move_ ,” sending the six year old to the edge as he sits down next to her. Hayley stares at him with wide, frightened eyes, and Derek puts his hands on the keyboard. Derek hasn’t played the piano in years, but the muscle memory is still there. There’s silence as Derek plays the first several bars, and then he turns to Hayley and says, “Your turn.”

She nods, swallowing nervously as Derek shuffles down the bench to give her more room. Her fingers shake a little.

“Relax,” Derek says gruffly. “Take a breath and let it out; you’re too tense.”

Hayley’s eyes flicker to Derek’s before she fixes them on the keyboard again, inhaling deeply before letting the air flow out of her lungs. The notes come a little easier now as Hayley plays. When she falters, Derek stops her and shows her how to place her hands to simplify transitions. They only play the first minute before Derek tells her that’s enough. There’s a soft applause behind them.

“I didn’t know you played, Derek,” says Wendy.

Derek ignores Wendy and Alyssa. “You play well,” Derek tells Hayley. “How long have you been playing?”

“Grandma started teaching me when I was three,” Hayley says in a quiet voice.

“I see.” Derek gets up from the bench and moves toward the stairs.

“Derek.” Alyssa’s voice stops him. He doesn’t turn around, but waits for her to speak. “It’s Halloween,” she says. “Hayley and I brought pumpkins; would you like to help carve them?”

Not really, but he says, “Sure,” before going upstairs to his room. He changes into clean boxers and pulls on a pair of loose jeans before heading to the bathroom to brush his teeth. His hair sticks up in a few places and lies flat in others, but he doesn’t do more than run a hand through it before he joins Hayley, Alyssa, and Wendy at the dining room table where they’ve set up the pumpkins and carving supplies. The table has been covered with newspaper and there’s a large bowl for the three pumpkins’ insides. The women are each seated in front of one, so Derek pulls a chair up next to Hayley.

“Derek,” says Wendy, “could you please help her cut the lid off?”

Derek looks at the carving knife and then at Hayley’s shy, closed off expression before he says, “No.”

Wendy blinks with shock. “No?”

“I think she can do it,” Derek says. “If she needs help, she’ll ask.” He hands the sharp tool to Hayley carefully. “You know how to use this?”

Hayley nods.

“Then let’s get started.”

Hayley stands on the chair to reach the top of the pumpkin and presses the blade to the hardened flesh. Her face screws up in concentration as she pushes the knife harder, and then her small fists slap against the pumpkin as the blade slides through. Derek watches silently as Hayley first tries to just drag the carving knife through the pumpkin, then starts sawing slowly. A feeling of satisfaction wells in his chest and he raises an eyebrow at Wendy and Alyssa.

“Told you she could do it.” After Hayley pulls the top off of the pumpkin, Derek asks her, “Do you want help scooping out the insides?”

“Yeah,” she says quietly.

Derek stands wordlessly and shoves a hand inside the pumpkin, extending his claws once they’re out of sight. The moment his clawed fingers slide through wet, stringy flesh, Derek freezes. He’s not standing in a cozy suburban home in Washington anymore; he’s been transported to his old loft with water soaking into his clothes and the smell of blood and ozone permeating the air.

“ _It was worth it_ ,” Vernon Boyd tells him, eyes half-lidded with pain and blood-loss. Derek’s hands are embedded in his guts.

“Derek?”

He blinks. He’s standing in the Pearce’s house again and Wendy and Alyssa are looking at him with concern. His hand is inside of a pumpkin.

“Derek, are you alright?” asks Wendy. Derek swallows hard, but he isn’t salivating; at least he knows he isn’t about to vomit. 

“I’m fine,” he lies. He gathers a handful of pumpkin innards and drops it into the bowl on the table.

 

When Nick and Roger get back to the house, Nick openly stares at Derek where he’s seated at the kitchen table with a mix of surprise and relief. Derek meets his gaze and raises an eyebrow.

Turning to his wife, Nick says, “The pumpkins look great!”

Wendy smiles. “Thank you, dear.”

Hayley jumps from her seat and runs to Roger, grabbing onto the hem of his shirt. “Daddy, I carved mine all by myself!”

Roger’s eyes sharpen with concern and he starts searching her hands for injuries until Alyssa says, “Derek supervised.”

Roger looks up at Derek and gives him a small, appreciative nod before he brings his attention back to his daughter. “Well let me see it then.”

Nick asks, “So what is Hayley dressing up as this year?” 

“It’s a surprise!” Hayley tells him.

Alyssa laughs and reassures Nick, “You’ll see it after dinner.”

While the family chatters, Derek goes to the kitchen with Wendy to help cook supper. It’s mostly quiet work; Derek asks what Wendy has planned and they divide up the tasks, and then Derek just asks every so often where to find a specific dish or utensil. Dinner is a more social affair. Alyssa and Roger talk about the Halloween party they’re going to with some coworkers and with some encouragement, Hayley talks about her favourite candies and how she looks forward to trick-or-treating tonight. Derek carefully remains on the periphery of the conversation, preferring to spectate rather than actively contribute to the voices at the dinner table.

When they finish eating, Hayley, Roger, and Alyssa race upstairs to get Hayley dressed in her costume and Derek helps Nick and Wendy clean up. The dishwasher is running and they’re standing idle in the kitchen by the time the family of three returns. Roger and Alyssa are dressed as the Joker and Harlequin, and Hayley is Batgirl. Derek can’t help but think of Stiles.

“You all look fantastic!” Wendy says, beaming.

“Think you’ve got what it takes to defend Gotham from these lunatics?” Nick asks Hayley, pointing at her parents with his thumb.

Hayley grins. “Uh-huh!”

Roger says to Nick, “I really appreciate you doing this for us. We would have taken Hayley out ourselves but…”

“Actually,” Nick says, “I was thinking about sticking around and handing out candy with my wife. Derek could take her out.”  

The room goes silent and all eyes fall to Derek, whose eyes are wide like a deer in the headlights. The look he gives Nick is almost pleading, like if he stares for long enough, the words will crawl back into his mouth.

Eventually, Alyssa breaks the silence, addressing Derek. “ _Can_ you?”

Derek’s mouth is dry and his voice sounds rough, like he’s been choked. “I _could_ …”

Alyssa crouches down to bring herself level with Hayley and asks her, “Are you okay with going with Derek?”

Hayley kicks a booted foot back and forth, biting her lip, and shrugs, eyes glancing at Derek.

“Use your words, honey,” says Alyssa. “No one’s going to make you do anything you don’t want to.”

Hayley finally says, “He’s okay.”

Alyssa smiles and kisses her forehead. “That’s my brave girl.”

Roger looks a little nervous, but he says, “Well at least you won’t have to worry about any bullies with him around.”

Nick smiles, looking satisfied. “That settles it. What do you say, Derek?”

Everyone looks at him again and Derek says stiffly, “I need to get my jacket and phone.”

Amusement flickers in Nick’s eyes and he says, “Get your jacket and phone then.”

Derek hurries up the stairs and hears Nick and Wendy saying their goodbyes to Roger and Alyssa as they leave for their party. He turns his phone on and looks, half desperately, for a message from Stiles, as if it could save him from his fate. No new messages. Stiles must have his own plans tonight. Derek sighs and locks the screen before tucking his phone into his back pocket, then he heads downstairs and grabs his leather jacket from the closet beside the front door. Hayley, Nick, and Wendy are waiting in the entryway.

“What time do we need to be back at?” Derek asks Wendy.

Wendy answers, “Whenever Hayley is tired or nine o’clock at the latest.”

Derek nods.

Nick pats him on the shoulder and says, “You’ll be fine, kid.”

Derek shrugs his hand off and turns to Hayley, who is now armed with a pillowcase. “Ready to go?” he asks her.

Hayley nods and Wendy crouches down to hug her. “Bye, Grandma,” Hayley says. Then she hugs Nick and says, “Bye Grandpa.”

“Be safe,” says Wendy.

Derek opens the door and lets Hayley go out first before following.

“Where do you want to go?” Derek asks her, but Hayley is already charging toward Nick’s neighbour’s house. Derek walks faster to keep up with her and thinks to himself that this is going to be a long night. When they reach the end of the street and Hayley slips her hand into his, telling him seriously that they have to hold hands while crossing the road, Derek curses himself for being right.

Derek tries to stick close to Hayley, but he gives a few steps of space between them as they walk down the sidewalk and he hangs back at the bottom of the porch steps when they go up to houses. Hayley doesn’t seem to mind. It brings Derek back to his own childhood, going trick-or-treating with Laura and his parents, and later with his little brother, Michael. They always tried to escape their parents, explore the town by themselves. It was the one time of the year they could partially shift in public, revealing their true nature without causing any real suspicion. When Derek was a teenager, he would bring Cora trick-or-treating. She told him very clearly that he could not hold her hand and that he was to leave two steps of space between them because she didn’t need a babysitter. She was seven.

Derek wonders what Cora is doing now, if she’s remembering those times too.

“Lieutenant Dan, _come on!_ ” calls Hayley at the end of the block. “ _We have to hold hands!_ ”

Derek shakes his head at the nickname and stops beside the little girl, gently taking her proffered hand. His own hand practically swallows it.

Most of the home owners recognize Hayley, and a few even recognize Derek as “the handsome young man the Pearces have adopted.” Hayley is polite, if a little whiny at times, but that’s normal for kids her age. Cora wasn’t especially partial to whining unless she was in trouble; she was always fierce, even before the anger.

Hayley starts to droop around half-past eight, so Derek takes her around the block to circle back to the Pearces’. The streets are less crowded with children, so Derek lets Hayley skip ahead a few meters, only calling out a reminder to stay away from the road. Hayley gives him a very dry look in return, making him smirk with amusement. A group of older boys bumps into Hayley and she drops her pillowcase full of sweets. A boy dressed as a skeleton laughs and picks it up. Hayley grabs onto it and tugs ineffectually.

“Hey, that’s mine!” she shouts indignantly.

“You snooze, you lose,” says another boy. The skeleton boy laughs.

Derek walks over to the group and crouches down with bent knees until he’s level with the kids. “Now I’m going to ask you nicely to give that young girl her candy back, and I only ask nice once.”

The skeleton boy sneers. “Who are you, her babysitter?”

Derek grins, revealing sharp, canine teeth and letting his vision turn blue. The boys’ eyes go wide and their mouths drop open in disbelief as they stand frozen. There’s a beat of silence and then Derek snarls, loud and savage. The boys scream, dropping Hayley’s candy, and run down the street. Derek lets his features become human once more and picks up Hayley’s bag, holding it out to her. Hayley stares at him.

“Lieutenant Dan,” she whispers, “are you a _wolf?_ ”

Derek gives her a small, mischievous smile. “Promise you won’t tell?”

Hayley nods seriously, taking her candy from him, and then a wide grin spreads across her lips. “You’re a wolf! Does that mean you can howl?”

“If I want to,” Derek tells her.

Hayley looks around with narrowed eyes. “Will you howl for me _now?_ ”

Derek throws back his head and gives in to the primal urge, calling for pack and home and family. Hayley shrieks with delight.

“That was awesome!” she cries.

Derek looks down at her, head cocked. “You’re not afraid?”

Hayley shakes her head. “No. You’re a nice wolf. You scared away the mean boys.”

Derek lowers his head, fighting the urge to smile. “It’s been a long night. Let’s get you home.”

“Can I ride on your shoulders?”

“If you want.”

“ _Awesome!_ ”

 

Nick’s eyebrows climb up his forehead when he opens the door to see Derek carrying Hayley’s candy with the girl herself on his shoulders, giggling happily. Derek ducks under the doorframe to make sure Hayley doesn’t bump her head, then stands in the entryway as Nick smirks at the two of them. Wendy wanders out from the kitchen and her lips part in a surprised “o”.

“You two have fun tonight?” asks Nick.

“These mean boys tried to take my candy, but Lieutenant Dan scared them away!” Hayley says excitedly.

“And how did he do that?” Wendy frowns with concern.

“He’s a wolf!” Hayley exclaims. “But you can’t tell anyone! It’s a secret.”

Nick eyes Derek with interest. “Is that right?”

“I’m not going to howl for you, if that’s what you’re asking,” says Derek. He isn’t too concerned; it’s Halloween after all, and Hayley is still a young child.

“You howled for _me_ ,” Hayley says.

“That’s because you’re special,” Derek tells her.

Hayley leans around Derek’s head to look at him with wide eyes. “Am I your pack?”

“Do you want to be?”

“ _Yes!_ ” Hayley throws her head back and imitates a howl.

Derek laughs and Hayley clings to him, kicking her feet happily. A soft click and a flash alerts Derek and he opens his eyes to see Nick aiming his cellphone at the two of them.

“Perfect,” Nick says. “I’ll text the photo to you so you can have a copy, Derek. Roger and Alyssa will never believe it.”

Derek nods dumbly.

“And _you_ ,” Wendy says to Hayley, “should get to bed. Your mommy and daddy are going to be late. Want Grandma to tuck you in?”

“I want Mr. Wolf to tuck me in,” says Hayley.

“Alright,” says Wendy. “ _Mr. Wolf_ can tuck you in.” Her lips twist as she fights a smile.

Derek sets Hayley down and hands her back of candy to her while he removes his boots, then she insists on holding his hand as they go up the stairs to her room. Hayley enters the room by herself to change into her pajamas, then Derek leads her to the bathroom with a reminder to brush her teeth. When she’s done, they go back to Hayley’s room and Derek pulls back the blankets of her bed for her to crawl inside, laying her head on her pillow.

“Anything else you need?” Derek asks.

Hayley shakes her head with a yawn. “I’m too sleepy for a story tonight.”

“That’s okay,” Derek says. He brushes Hayley’s hair back from her face, then gently taps the end of her nose with a fingertip. “Sweet dreams, Hayley. The moon lights our path.”

Hayley giggles sleepily. “Goodnight.”

Derek brushes her cheek once more, then exits the bedroom quietly, turning off the lamp and shutting the door behind him.

When Derek goes down the hall to his own room and takes his phone from his pocket, he finds a new message waiting for him. It’s the picture from Nick, of him and Hayley. Hayley’s small fists are knotted in his hair and she’s hunched over the top of his head to get closer to him, cheeks bright and grin wide. Derek has been caught mid-laugh, his mouth open and smiling and his eyes mostly closed so that they don’t reflect the light of the flash. His heart clenches; he hasn’t laughed and smiled like that in a long time. Even with Laura, it was a rare thing.

Before he can think better of it, Derek sends the picture to Stiles along with a simple message.

**Me [09:07PM]**

**Happy Halloween.**

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on Tumblr [here](http://thecomedownchampion.tumblr.com/)!


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